


Ours is the Fury

by Haleofalannister



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Blood and Gore, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Character Death, Courtship, Dark, Derek is Not a Failwolf, Fluff and Angst, However this will also be very plot heavy, Incest, Intrigue, Marriage of Convenience, Mpreg, Multi, Panic Attacks, Politics, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Prince Stiles, Rape/Non-con Elements, Royalty, Top Derek Hale, Torture, Trust Issues, War, asoiaf au, don't worry most OCs piss me off too, the Ocs are just to fill in family gaps not piss you off, there will be scenes describing majestic dicks, very plot heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 140,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haleofalannister/pseuds/Haleofalannister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Song of Ice and Fire: Teen Wolf Expansion Pack Edition </p><p>The Nine Realms of Westeros are united under the rule of King John Baratheon I. However, even in times of peace there is strife to be found. Bloody Civil Wars are being waged within houses; alliances are being forged through the back channels of Westeros; the ever present conflict between the Reach and Dorne is continuing to escalate; and the Targaryens are as mad as ever.  One has to wonder what event will trigger the hairpin that is holding this strenuous peace together, and if one will still find a stag seated on the Iron Throne when the dust settles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kings have no friends, only Subjects and Enemies

***Okay bromigos, before we get going I have some housekeeping to address. UPDATED MAY20th***

I. This is not a chapter, this is your giant outline of the main players. These characters are mainly for the most part from TW: I have added names, siblings, merged families where needed. If you disagree with any feel free to mention it in the comments, otherwise everyone is staying put where they are. If there are missing characters you want added just throw it in the comments, please state where you would put them and why. Obviously random lesser characters will be in the story, names likely to be taken from the book series. 

II. This is staying in the 9 realms. This story is already insanely plot heavy and is shaping up to be about 250k in length. Thus, despite the fact the Wall exists, and everyone has the ability to take the black and roast marshmallows over moose poop fires, we will not be traveling there in this story. No Wall, no Wildlings, no Whitewalkers and no Essos either. 

III. There will be smut, however as mentioned this is super plot heavy and I would rather focus on plot than describing majestic dicks to you. So... a lot of smut scenes will show up much later in the story once shit gets rolling, and many scenes will just be mentioned in passing or glossed over. If you want to fill in the blanks and write your own "inspired by" smut scenes by all means go ahead, I would love to read them. All these characters will be staying as true to their canon actions (positive and negative) and growth as possible (obviously underdeveloped characters like Lydia, Scott, Erica, Boyd etc will get the development they deserve.The best part of ASOIAF is that everyone is flawed and those flaws are highlighted so everyone is painted negative and positive. 

IV. Tagging system: Sterek is endgame in this and the big ship, so for now it is the only big one I am tagging. I am not going to waste time tagging things like John/Claudia or Brandon/Talia, etc. Those are self explanatory. I am also not going to be tagging non canon TW characters. ***someone shit their pants in anger over my tags so I have added tags for character death, gore, incest, etc despite my earlier warnings. Apparently my giant warning about this containing all material relevant to asoiaf was not obvious enough and they were offended some way or another. This is an ASOIAF/GOT au; shit happens, if you can't deal with the original because you find it triggery, I suggest you stay away from this fic. Also I am trying to avoid tagging relationships because of spoilers. So for example... if new relationships or deaths happen in chapter 8, those won't be tagged until chapter 9 is posted. A lot of these are directly tied up in the plot. Think of it like opening Game of Thrones for the first time and seeing a page of tags with shit like sansa/joffrey sansa/tyrion sansa/petyr baelish; ie shit. If there are certain relationships you want to see as endgame then please say so in the comments and I will do my best to work some of them in to the story, I don't care of if they are a big ship or a rare pair, speak now or forever hold your peace (side note Derek and Stiles aren't touching anyone but Derek and Stiles). 

V. Sterek; the mini survey has told me mpreg, thus mpreg is now a thing. You will find that Alexandra argent is now once again Alexander. Please note I am not an mpreg person, it really isn't my bag and I am not putting a whole lot into this aspect of the story. You guys wanted Stiles to not abdicate the throne, so here we are. I'm not really sure how this whole thing is going to go, but I am going with all mpreg children are born through so medieval c-sections, so enjoy the general vagueness. 

VI. Family Outlines; you will find these posted below. To help you understand better here are a few simple rules. The people being posted are from the main family branch, ie the ruling section of the family tree. These people have cousins, uncles, nieces, nephews, and third cousin's brother's wife's step-niece's great aunt (twice removed) for relatives... so please remember that. If someone is being listed as the child of someone from house Tyrell and Frey it doesn't mean they are a direct relative to members of either ruling families, it is simply in place to help you understand where house alliances have been formed through marriage. Also if someone is say for instance a Stark and no indication is given as to their family lineage it is safe to assume they are the product of northern houses, houses loyal to the Starks; so nothing to worry about. 

\--------------

### STARK

Brandon (36): The head of House Stark and a true northerner. Brandon is rather aggressive in his ruling style and can best be described as wolf-blooded. Despite his tendency to make rash decisions he is a fair ruler and takes the interests of northerners to heart. He is a shining example of the Stark genes: Dark hair, tall, well built and light eyes. An excellent swordsman, but not as good as his brother, as his emotions tend to cloud his judgement at times. He is married to Talia and they have 3 children. 

Talia (35): Originally from House Tarth in the Stormlands, she has become a true she-wolf through and through during her time in the North and her marriage into the North has been a prosperous one. She believes in accountability above all else and ensuring the protection of those under control of House Stark. She is a skilled swordswoman and has been known to best her brother-in law on occasion. Her quiet disposition is often mistaken for weakness, a mistake that is often rectified with dire results for the offender. 

Peter (32): Brother of Brandon and the quieter of the two brothers. His intentions are often less honourable than those of his brother but he is no less dedicated to preserving the rule of House Stark. He is incredibly intelligent and quick witted; two traits which often get him in and out of trouble quite quickly. He is a very dangerous individual to cross and will not seek to tear out a few throats in order to balance the scales. He was originally married to Cerenna Lannister and together they had a son Jackson; however following a scandal their marriage was absolved and Jackson is not recognized as a Stark (refer to Lannisters). He is currently unattached. 

Laura (19): Eldest sibling of Brandon and Talia, she carries the dark features of the Stark family. She can be described as an idealist and unfortunately somewhat naive. She chooses to see the best in people, and due to her upbringing in the politically stable North she is not truly aware of how dark the intentions of some can be. However don't be mistaken, she is without a doubt a wolf of House Stark, she just chooses to only close her jaws on someone when she absolutely has to. She is currently betrothed to Christophe Targaryen in hopes of mending the fragile relationship between the two houses, Laura does exhibit true feelings for Chris. 

Derek (18): He is the only son of Brandon and Talia, thus making him the current heir to Winterfell. He has inherited his father's good looks and exhibits the same hot running wolf-blood, causing him to be quite rash in some of his decision making. Fortunately, Derek is not quick to place his trust in people and is thus forced to slow down and put further thought into forming his opinions and thus actions. He is currently unattached and at the moment believes himself to be not interested in finding a spouse. He is quite intelligent like his uncle but in contrast does not boast it. He chooses instead to increase his learning of Westeros in hopes of bettering himself before inevitably becoming Lord of Winterfell. 

Cora (15): The youngest of Brandon and Talia's children, she resembles her mother but is quite possibly more wolf-blooded than her father. She has a known wild streak, and would rather go adventuring across Stark lands and remain at Winterfell than marry and move away from the North. Being the youngest sibling she often feels excluded by her older siblings due to their age gap, which has lead to divergent interests. She instead spends most of her time exploring alone, avoiding her lessons or being taught swordsmanship by her uncle Peter. She is not betrothed at this time.

###  BARATHEON

John (34): King of the nine realms and head of House Baratheon. He is without a doubt a true stag and isn't afraid to ram or charge into someone to get his point across. However, he is also a regal and fair king like his father before him. His utmost concern is protecting the citizens of the realm and ensuring their prosperity and safety from internal and external forces. He wields his power only to the extent that is necessary, but if trouble arises he will not hesitate to gather his forces and run the opposition into the ground. He was married to Claudia Lannister before her death and together they had one son, Stiles. 

Stiles (16): Heir to nine realms and future King of Westeros, Stiles is unique in his own right. He is bull headed and stubborn like any good Baratheon, but due to his mother's Lannister and Florent blood he is both loyal and proud to a fault, and equally mischievous. Unfortunately, his mischievous Florent personality, coupled with his Baratheon parentage has led to him developing a vicious vindictive streak. Those who end up on the wrong side of the Prince often find themselves on the receiving end of this stag's ire, and in turn his antlers. Whilst he currently has little interest in ruling he thoroughly enjoys manipulating the members of the court and spreading false rumours to entertain himself, much to the chagrin of the Master of Whisperers. At the moment he has no interest in finding a spouse and has grown quite tired of the crowd in King's Landing. He is not betrothed and has threatened to run away to the Summer Isles every time his father has addressed it. 

Stannis (40): Older brother to the King and the Lord of Storm's End. He is a veteran soldier like his brother and has led many successful campaigns. He has little patience for those of King's Landing and thus refuses to deal with the fools of the court. He and his wife of Selmy blood had a difficult time conceiving a son, and since they welcomed their son Edric (2) into the world a few years prior they are rarely seen away from home. Stannis is loyal and supportive of his brother and would not hesitate to follow him into battle. He has negative five hundred thousand degrees of patience for Targaryen bullshit.

### TARGARYEN

Gerard (50): Epitome of a mad Targaryen, Gerard can best be described as a great big bag of dicks. He supports the notion of superior Targaryen blood and encourages keeping marriages within the branches of the Targaryen family tree, even if the children start sprouting multiple heads like the family crest. In his older years his health and mind have begun to weaken, resulting in the wide spread belief that his son Christophe will soon replace him as head of House Targaryen. He has held a grudge against the Stark family for many years and has rarely passed up an opportunity to add fuel to the fire. He is married to his brother Alexander and has three children. 

Alexander (42): Spouse and younger brother of Gerard, he is one of the few truly sane Targaryens. He is concerned with the livelihood of the Targaryen family as their borders have been progressively shrinking since their last rebellion against the crown decades ago. When he was younger he was responsible for aiding in the evacuation of Targaryen subjects in the Crownlands and ensuring their safe move north of Duskendale during the last Rebellion. He has been able to keep the tentative peace established between his husband and the Baratheon kings. Despite the former King Gendry Baratheon seizing all land south of Duskendale in the Crownlands, including their former capital King's Landing, the Targaryen family has yet to crumble. Alexander can be attributed the glory for ensuring the continued survival of the Targaryen family. 

Christophe (25): Chris is very similar to Alexander and would make a just and fair ruler for the citizens of the Crownlands, unfortunately Gerard won't step down, and despite his health has yet to croak. He is still very much a dragon and if his family is threatened he will not hesitate to take first action and draw blood. Kate may be his twin sister but he tends to see more eye to eye with his younger sister Allison. Despite his father's adamant objection, he was able to persuade Alexander to allow him to seek Laura Hale's hand in marriage. He is currently betrothed to her and he is very much in love. 

Kate (25): Kate takes after her father and sees the family motto of "Fire and Blood" as more of a lifestyle than house words. She is a strong believer in the statement that the only good blood is Targaryen blood and thus does not support her brother's betrothal. She feels Chris should be marrying a Targaryen and not sullying their blood with that of a lesser individual. She is very close to Allison and is actively attempting to sway her towards supporting her theories and not those of their brother. She is a deadly enforcer for her father and has been know to use fire as her weapon of choice. She is also the noble who brought to light the accusations against Davyd and Cerenna Lannister (refer to Lannisters). 

Allison (17): Allison is very similar to Alexander and would be willing to lay down her life to protect her people if need be. She has a sweet disposition and values life above all else, but that doesn't stop her from taking any. For she is a skilled archer, has deadly accurate aim and has been known to become slightly trigger happy on occasion. She is notorious for using burning arrows to take down her enemies. She is also interested in marrying outside of Targaryen blood and has been expressing interest in one Scott Arryn, however many believe this to be an attempt at ameliorating the relations between House Arryn and House Targaryen, not love.

### LANNISTER

Parris (27): Parris is the current acting Hand to the King and head of House Lannister. He greatly looks up to John Baratheon and is a trusted adviser and friend. He is the younger brother of his sisters Claudia and Cerenna. He is brave, loyal, capable, and won't back down from a challenge like any true lion. He is a strong believer in leading by example and thus does not hoard all of the Lannister wealth but instead wisely invests pieces of it in the kingdom in order to better the lives of its many citizens. He is currently unwed but is beginning to feel pressured to supply an heir to Casterly Rock. (yes this is Parrish, I dropped the H since we don't know his first name and I appear to have zero fucks to give)

Claudia (25/32): The late wife of King John Baratheon and mother of Prince Stiles Baratheon. Like her two siblings she was the daughter of a Lannister and a Florent; making her not only a dangerous predator to cross but a crafty one at that. During her brief years as queen of Westeros, she managed to root out many questionable individuals within King's Landing and ultimately better the productivity of the government. She was an advocate for social welfare and saw to the increased support towards orphanages within the capitals of the realms and tax breaks towards struggling farmers. Ultimately she was a fierce protector of all her citizens and was mourned across the realms following her passing. 

Cerenna (35): Eldest of the Lannister children, she was happily married to her husband Peter Stark in the North and bore him one son, Jackson. However, Kate Targaryen brought forth accusations that she was engaging in an adulterous relationship with her cousin Davyd Lannister. Unfortunately for Cerenna her claims that there was no merit to accusations went unheard as Kate managed to garner the support of other nobles to back her claim. Due to the increasing scandal the marriage was ultimately dissolved, and in order to prevent Jackson from claiming a bastard surname she married her cousin Davyd. This ensured her son would at least be a Lannister if he could not be recognized as a Stark. She currently resides at Casterly Rock with Davyd, but remains loyal to Peter. 

Davyd (39): Cousin to Parris, Claudia and Cerenna Lannister. He was unfortunately caught up in the Stark/Lannister scandal that was perpetrated by Kate Targaryen and was in the end forced to marry his cousin to limit family shame. He remains adamant to this day that no such adulterous relationship occurred. He also has a strained relationship with Jackson due to the fact he does not truly recognize him as his son beyond the required legal standing. 

Jackson (16): He is the legitimate son of Peter Stark and Cerenna Lannister but unfortunately this truth is no longer recognized or widely accepted. He is naturally opposed to the stigmas that follow him: he is either the product of an adulterous incestuous relationship; or the disowned bastard son of a Stark. Due to these circumstances he is quite standoffish and hides behind a snide veneer to mask his insecurities. He has been raised as a Lannister and resides as Casterly Rock, but due to his questionable parentage he is not able to inherit the claim to Casterly Rock.

### TULLY

Severo (49): Son of a Tully and a Frey he is head of House Tully and rules over the Riverlands. The family motto of "Family, Duty, Honour" is often manipulated to suit his needs: kill first in the name of family, ask questions later. He is by no means an intimidating man at first sight but he has a grating personality. The Riverlands are a very difficult area to control as house loyalties change as quickly as the rivers flow. Many believe that Severo will be on his way out soon enough and new a family will take over control of the Riverlands, something he is doing his best to prolong. He is married to Araya and has two daughters. 

Araya (44): The wife of Severo and originally a member of the extended Tyrell family. She carries the pricklier Tyrell disposition and is more a cactus than a flower. Nonetheless she employs both the Tyrell and Tully house mottos when governing the affairs of her family, and has sought to increase the longevity of the crumbling Tully house by securing political marriages through her daughters. She married her oldest daughter Melissa to Rafael Arryn in the Vale, in hopes of ending the constant neutrality of House Arryn. She has been attempting to secure a marriage between Christophe Targaryen and her youngest daughter Victoria for years, but due to Chris' infatuation with Laura Stark she has had no success. 

Victoria (28): Victoria is willing to do whatever it takes to uphold the code of honour within her family, including marrying whomever her mother tells her too. She has a stern and harsh personality like her parents and is aware of the harsh realities surrounding House Tully. If her family fails to extend its power and secure the necessary ties to remain afloat, it will find itself being washed down stream whilst a new house comes to power. She does not feel love for Christophe Targaryen but she understand the importance that a union between the two of them could bring. As a result the relations between House Tully and and House Stark have dimmed. She isn't close to her sister Melissa and the two rarely converse.

### ARRYN

Rafael (38): Rafael Arryn is the son of a rare Arryn/Martell union and continues to uphold the ongoing Arryn neutrality during all conflicts in Westeros. Unfortunately, Rafael views his place in the Vale as a sign that he is out of reach from those around him and above reproach for his actions. As a result he often opens and closes his borders to certain houses on a whim and will go long periods of time without responding to or acknowledging the other surrounding realms. He finds meaning in the family motto "As High As Honour" and feels that he is a better judge of character than most. Due to this proclamation he is often found sending ravens to John Baratheon with his suggestions on how the king should handle matters, but refuses to either take action himself or heed the reminders that he is not a member of the small council, nor does the king require his input on every matter across the realm. 

Melissa (31): Melissa is in possession of mostly Tyrell and Tully family traits. She is married to Rafael Arryn and together they have one son, Scott. She wants what is best for her family and despite being an excellent mother may be responsible for sheltering Scott too much from the politics outside of the Vale. She is not close with her parents or her sister and due to this is content to remain in the Vale cut off from the outside realms. She is a natural healer and like any true Tyrell has a natural green thumb, because of this the gardens at the Eyrie are now home to numerous medicinal plants and stockpiles of healing properties for wounds and ailments. The stock value of House Arryn, in the face of growing conflict within the realms, has risen as high as the peak of Giant's Lance. 

Scott (16): The son of Rafael and Melissa Arryn and heir to the Eyrie. He has been thrust into a position where he is destined to become a ruler of the Vale like his father, but unfortunately is not very well suited for it. Scott feels that due to his family's honour code, his moral compass is better at navigating the treacherous political minefields of Westeros, as opposed to listening to warnings and words of wisdom from others. This often leads him into precarious situations; situations which he does not truly understand the severity of. Scott is currently utterly infatuated with Allison, the youngest Targaryen daughter. Unfortunately, that means he has given little thought to the possibility that the young Targaryen's interests lay in helping her family expand its shrinking borders, and not simply true love blossoming.

### GREYJOY

Quenton (52): Quenton is a true Ironborn and rules over the Iron Islands with a distinctly iron fist. However, this iron fist has been known to make contact with a few of his children from time to time, most notably his second son Isaac. During his younger years he was a notoriously dangerous admiral to encounter at sea and was known for supplying the deadliest naval battalions any military could hope for. Following the death of his wife during a storm at sea, he has spent less time on a ship and more times locked away in his castle on Pyke cursing the Drowned God. 

Camden (24): Camden is a veteran soldier within the naval fleet and a key figurehead on the Iron Islands. As the eldest son he is ultimately the heir to Pyke and will likely take over when his father can no longer rule effectively. He is similar to his father in that he is quite cold and detached, he demands only the best from his men and they give their best in return. Despite his good looks he has expressed no immediate interest in finding a spouse. He has yet to leave the Iron Islands and instead he is fixated on increasing their military prowess. Due to his similar nature to his father he is the most heralded child. 

Isaac (16): He is an anomaly on the Iron Isles; frankly he is too emotionally soft. His father has taken to beating him in hopes of hardening him up and turning him into a man similar to his older brother. Naturally all that has done is turn Isaac against his father and drive him towards seeking a way to overthrow him; this has led to him plotting with his father’s bastard Matt. Isaac by nature has a kind heart and would do well to leave the Iron Islands; as the longer he remains the more jaded and violent he becomes towards his family. 

Erica (17): She is by nature cold and harsh like Camden and her father, but she also suffers from a health condition which has left her exposed and weak in the faces of others. The condition is treatable, however the plants required only grow in the mountains of the Vale and are expensive to import to Pyke. Given the Ironborn way of life she is meant to toughen through most of her episodes and make do with what little medication she is supplied. She often takes out her anger through acts of aggression like her father and is only marginally close to her brothers Camden and Isaac. Despite a closer relationship with Isaac she has no knowledge of his scheming with Matt. 

Matt (21): Matt is technically not a Greyjoy, he is a Pyke; a bastard of the Iron Islands. Because of his stigmatized Bastard status, neither his family nor their bannermen pay any respect towards him. After getting thrown overboard off of a ship a few too many times, Matt has decided to put into motion a plan to remove his father from his position as head of House Greyjoy. Given all his incessant scheming, he has found an ally in his brother Isaac, and a house with an invested interest on the other side of Westeros.

### TYRELL

Mace (31): Head of House Tyrell and lord of Highgarden, he is quite proud of being the head of one of the wealthiest families in Westeros and never hesitates to bring it up in any and all conversations. His marriage to Olenna has been on the rocks for years, but has yet to truly wilt and die. He continues to feed animosity into the ongoing conflicts between the Reach and Dorne. Because of this amounting animosity between realms, there is talk of House Florent making a bid to unseat House Tyrell from power and end the conflict between these two realms once and for all. Naturally Mace Tyrell is opposed to seeing his family fall from their stature and has his roots dug into the ground, completely unwilling to compromise. 

Olenna (35): A Redwyne by birth, and thus a woman of the Reach through and through. The Redwynes are a wealthy merchant family known for producing excellent wine, however the rumour is that the ongoing drama in the Reach has led to Olenna producing a slight dependency on said wine. Her marriage to Mace Tyrell is said to be close to its breaking point, however she is still very concerned with the appearance of her family and refuses to openly acknowledge that their power could possibly be waning in favour of House Florent. She has been seen sending multiple ravens to Peter Stark, though it is unknown if the reason is for herself or to secure a key political marriage for one of her daughters, possibly in hopes of crushing the impending Civil War within the Reach. 

Lydia (16): She is self absorbed, materialistic, and like her mother refuses to believe that House Tyrell could ever fall. She truly is a beautiful flower but unfortunately her personality is fewer petals and all thorns. If you find yourself a member of a lesser house, a bastard or poorly dressed, be prepared for one of her guards to remove you from her sight. The one exception being Jackson Lannister; instead of discarding him Lydia has taken an interest in him and the two have a turbulent friendship. Due to her disregard for the problems of her own house and feigning ignorance, she has a strained relationship with her sister Meredith. 

Meredith (17): She is much more quiet and subdued than her sister Lydia and is far less concerned with her looks and the public family facade. Due to her interest in expanding her horizons instead of what dress she should wear for the day, she does not have the best relationship with her sister. She is greatly interested in the ongoing conflicts both between the Tyrells and Florents and the Reach and Dorne. She is often found wandering through the corridors in hopes of catching whispering voices passing on important details. Unlike her sister who chooses to block out and ignore all the voices she hears, Meredith embraces the knowledge and seeks to use it in hopes of understanding what is to come. She only hopes that one day her sister Lydia realizes how important it is that she do the same.

### FLORENT

Ryam (34): Ryam is head of House Florent and an avid scholar. He has spent much of his life reading and studying about the never ending contentions between the Reach and Dorne. As a historian he believes that the Tyrells are to blame for the constant conflict. Because of this belief he is currently reviewing the logistics and strategy behind organizing a Florent takeover in the Reach. He is not a violent man, but he believes that if House Florent were to unseat House Tyrell from their position in Highgarden, he would be able to bring peace between the Reach and Dorne and finally cease all hostilities between the two neighbouring realms. He is married to Noshiko and together they have two daughters. 

Noshiko (42): She is originally of House Hightower in the Reach but has picked up many of the fox attributes in her later years. The Hightower family motto has always been "We Light The Way" and as such she is a very morally driven individual. She believes in retribution and one paying for their actions, based on this she is an open supporter of her husband's plans to unseat House Tyrell. She agrees with her husband that the houses in the Reach have been responsible for instigating the better part of the conflicts between themselves and the Dornishmen, and as such House Tyrell needs to pay for refusing to mediate the actions of their subjects. She is a skilled swordswoman and has two daughters whom she loves dearly. 

Rhys (29): Known as the "Blackfox" he is a bit of an extremist within House Florent. He is the younger brother to Ryam Florent and believes that instead of simply unseating House Tyrell they should be ripped from the ground and exterminated in their entirety. He feels that they breed too much chaos and strife and the only way to truly purge such negative energy from the Reach is too completely eliminate the source. He is quite clever and cunning and has been known to utilize these skills whilst hunting; however there are claims that animals are not the only individuals to have found their way into his traps. Due to his extremist beliefs he remains unwed as it is difficult to marry when many houses in the Reach still remain loyal to House Tyrell. 

Kira (16): The eldest daughter of Ryam and Noshiko, she has a very upbeat and light personality and is strikingly beautiful. She is closer to her father than her mother and is often found causing trouble with her sister Rinko. Any of the trouble she orchestrates is naturally quite lighthearted and is often the source of amusement amongst the residents of Brightwater. Her mother had been attempting to teach her swordsmanship despite her protests that she has no interest in it. At the moment she is not betrothed as her father is waiting for a time when the politics in the Reach are more stable. 

Rinko (15): The youngest daughter of Ryam and Noshiko, she is more interested in the political happenings of the Reach than her sister Kira. She understands the necessity of utmost secrecy being involved in the Florent takeover and actively follows her mother and father to the council meetings. Despite her interest in politics she has an anxious personality and is not suited for for being a leader in a war time situation. She looks forward to the day she will be married and able to start a family of her own in a peaceful region of the Westeros; at this time she in not betrothed. 

Satomi (61): Mother of Ryam and Rhys, she is one of the few northerners found in the Reach and descends from branches of House Stark and House Flint. She is often found with her son Ryam and his war council planning the best strategy to encircle the Tyrells. She has a short temper, just as her wolf-blood would suggest, and reviewing strategy helps keep her calm and drives her anger towards a purpose. She like her sons and daughter-in law, feels that the Tyrells have failed to properly control the houses within the Reach, and as such are putting others into danger. It can be noted that she does not support the extremist tendencies of her son Rhys, and has warned him on many occasions that she will not hesitate to put him down if he goes too far.

### MARTELL

Doran (37): He is head of House Martell and rules the realm of Dorne out of Sunspear. He is a known charmer and well liked by all he meets; but he is also a deadly soldier who should not be taken lightly. He prefers to keep Dorne out of Westeros' headache inducing politics, and employs a type of governing style similar to House Arryn in the Vale. Nonetheless, he is on good terms with King John Baratheon and even gifted one of his best Dornish Sand Steeds from the royal bloodstock to Prince Stiles Baratheon on his sixteenth name day. He has been blessed with the Martell genes and numerous sonnets have been written about his captivating smile. He is married to Arianne and together they have one son, Danny. 

Arianne (33): Prior to marriage she was originally from House Dayne of Starfall, and like any true woman from Dorne has enviable beauty. She has little love for the citizens of the Reach and has often encouraged her husband to strike back against them in order to end their antagonizing. She is very close with Doran's sister Kali, and the two are often found enjoying all the luxuries that Sunspear has to offer. She is very protective of her son Danny and is hesitant to allow a betrothal, naturally she is opposed to any marriage that would see Danny tied to someone from a lineage outside of Dorne. 

Danny (16): He is the only son of Doran and Arianne Martell. He is generous and kind but had a trickster streak that has led to him cultivating a long distance friendship with Jackson Lannister. The two may not always see eye to eye but Danny refuses to judge Jackson based on his disputed parentage; a sign of equality not many are wiling to offer him. Danny is very intelligent, however he tends to use his intelligence to further his own gains and has been know to flash a smile in order to get what he wants. Despite this, no one has yet to question the motives of everyone's favourite Dornish prince. Because of his information gathering he is well aware of all the happenings across Westeros, however he has no intention of getting involved in any of it unless his hand is forced. He is currently not betrothed and is enjoying perusing his way through the all to eager members of the court in Sunspear and across Dorne. 

Kali (30): Kali is the younger sister of Doran and a deadly mercenary. She has spent her time traveling across Dorne and becoming infamous for her ruthless fighting style. She is very close with Arianne and has supported her in the belief that Dorne should engage the Reach, and end the hostilities once and for all with a Dornishman takeover. Growing up she was close friends with a girl from the Reach, Jennifer from House Rowan. However, their relationship went sour when Kali discovered that Jennifer was using their friendship in order procure information on Sunspear's defenses. Kali attacked her and left Jennifer severely scarred and moderately disfigured, the two have not spoken since the incident but Kali has been watching her movements in the Riverlands. She has had many suitors but has rebuffed all of them, choosing to spend her time aiding in the training of Dorne's soldiers.

### MORMONT

Boyd (22): Boyd is the only sibling of Alicia Mormont and head of House Mormont. He is currently not attached and is enjoying all that King’s Landing has to offer. He is a member of the small council and has the position of Master of Whisperers due to his quiet and reclusive nature. Despite his large commanding stature, he is indeed deceptively quiet and skilled in clandestine intelligence gathering. The King's son Stiles seems to believe they are friends and is keen on "aiding" Boyd at performing his duties; despite numerous refutations by Boyd that they are indeed not friends, and that he does not require the Prince's aid to do his job. (I know his name is technically Vernon, but since his last name is changing I am making his first name Boyd, if it bothers you enough that you feel like complaining, please go find a Lego to step on and then come find me and let me know if it is still that painful to deal with)

Alicia (20): She is a strong leader and acts as head of House Mormont when her brother Boyd is away at King's Landing. She has pledged unyielding support to House Stark in the North and as such finds herself a member of their war council. She is often used as an unbiased third party when resolving disputes between the lesser houses. Alicia is tall and imposing like her brother and easily finds herself at home in the woods carrying an axe; however she is just as elegant when at court in both dress and dance.

### OAKHEART

Deaton (36): He is the head of House Oakheart, one of the most prominent houses in the Reach. House Oakheart has been paramount in trying to keep the peace between House Tyrell and House Florent for years, however following Deaton's commissioning to Master of Coin he has dedicated less time to affairs in the Reach. Deaton excels in his role as Master of Coin, as he is able to detach himself from any bias and ensure the best balance between taxation and expenditure. Since his commissioning the Kingdom has removed itself from any debt and is prospering economically. Deaton has yet marry as he feels he cannot adequately divide his time between family and ensuring the continued prosperity of the realms. (once again I know his name is Alan, but last name changes suck, so congrats I dub thee Deaton)

Marin (34): Whilst her brother is in King's Landing, she is the acting head of House Oakheart. She has taken a less active role in keeping the peace between Houses Tyrell and Florent since her brother's departure; despite having observed the strengthening of House Florent as well as the shifting alliances of bannermen within the Reach. In contrast to her brother, her method is to simply sit back and let the two houses find their own balance, a course of action that will likely lead to war. She is not a warlord, nor is House Oakheart renowned for its military accomplishments; should war breakout in the Reach she will be forced to align House Oakheart with one side or the other. She is currently widowed and has yet to find a new husband due to her inability to dictate where her allegiances lie.

### FREY

Aiden (23): He is the current head of House Frey alongside his brother Ethan. Prior to his betrothal to Jennifer Rowan, Aiden and Ethan were collectively 7th and 8th in line to be head of House Frey. However Jennifer held much greater ambitions and steered them along a path filled with betrayal and bloodshed. His brother was responsible for persuading his father's men to join their cause and then gave the execution orders on his wedding night. The event, that has come to be known as the Red Wedding, saw Aiden and his brother lead their men into the slaughtering of all their immediate family members whom could challenge their claim to the Twins. Their father, mother, brothers and sisters were all sacrificed in order to see their rise to power and Jennifer's plan to come into fruition. At this time he currently does not have any heirs.

Ethan (23): He is meant to be head of House Frey alongside his brother Aiden, however he has come to realize that Jennifer is manipulating Aiden into following her opinions and suggested courses of action, all without consulting him. He played a key role in convincing his father's loyal men to follow him and his brother and was ultimately responsible for the brutal slaughter of his family members. He is now attempting to smooth over relations between House Frey and the other noble houses within the Riverlands, and make amends for damage they have caused. Naturally the other houses are wary of the new heads of House Frey, but he is doing his best to negotiate good relations; despite having to work around Aiden and Jennifer. 

Jennifer (28): Formerly of House Rowan in the Reach, she was once friends with the Dornish princess Kali Martell. She had sought to increase the prominence of her family's house by being able to deliver information to the Tyrells, that could aid in destroying the Martells once and for all. However, Kali Martell caught on to her scheme and attacked Jennifer before she relay the pertinent information; the attack left her scarred and partially disfigured. During the time leading up the attack, her parents had been negotiating a betrothal for her to Deucalion of House Bolton in the North. The plan had been that through the betrothal they would garner the necessary ties and support from the northerners in their conflict against the Dornishmen. Following her attack, plans for the betrothal fell through. Ultimately Jennifer ended up marrying into House Frey to one of the sons Aiden Frey; together they rule the Twins in the Riverlands.

### BOLTON

Deucalion (36): He is the head of House Bolton and loyal bannerman to House Stark. He was once briefly entertaining the notion of marrying one Jennifer Rowan of the Reach, however he ceased formal talks once he heard of her attack at the hands of Kali Martell. He was then betrothed to one Heather Frey, but following the massacre at the now notorious Red Wedding he finds himself without a bride. He is a ruthless leader and a member of the Stark war council. While the brutality of his methods in battle have occasionally been questioned, his rate of success cannot be argued against. Ethan Frey has made attempts to contact him and make amends for effectively ending his betrothal to his sister, but Deucalion has no interest in discussing compensation payments in regards to a corpse. 

Ennis (29): He is the younger brother of Deucalion and is also a loyal bannerman to House Stark. Unlike his brother he is much more rash in his decision making. He is more easily prone to unnecessary violence and has often been reminded that the torture of adversaries is not the Stark way. He was betrothed to Paige Frey in hopes of creating an alliance between the North and the Riverlands, however given her immediate death at the Red Wedding, he now finds himself without a betrothed. He is a veteran soldier and thus capable of recognizing proper courses of action, but often fails to take the best course of action into consideration when he feels his family has been dishonoured. As such his brother Deucalion has had to keep him on a short leash as to limit the possibility of him retaliating against House Frey.

### THE SMALL COUNCIL

Hand of the King: (see Parris Lannister)

Master of Coin: (see Deaton Oakheart)

Master of Whisperers: (see Boyd Mormont)

Master of Laws: Lady Graeme (36) is a trusted knight of the Stormlands and has a longstanding friendship with John Baratheon. Her father was a white cloak for John's father Gendry Baratheon and as such the king is willing to place a great deal of trust in her. When she is not performing her duties as Master of Laws, she can be found attempting to tutor Stiles in the matters of the court, a daunting task at best. 

Master of Ships: Ser Cordova (45) is also a knight of the Stormlands and served under Gendry and Stannis Baratheon in the last Targaryen rebellion. He comes from a long lineage of naval commanders and seaman and thus is a natural at coordinating and controlling the royal naval fleet. 

Lord Commander of the King's Guard: Ser Finstock (32) is the head of the King’s Guard and in charge of training all new white cloaks. His favourite individual to berate is a young man from House Estermont of Greenstone whom he refers to as Greenberg. Unfortunately poor Greenberg is often charged with watching the Prince who easily slips his guard.

Grand Maester: Adrian Harris who smells like dead cats, surprisingly good at his job yet terrible bedside manner. Not an evil dude, but no one likes him that much. Unfortunately too useful to just kill and you can’t really replace him without exuding far too much effort.


	2. Gold is cold and heavy on the head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. I love to see your comments, have at 'er  
> II. David Gandy is the face for Brandon Stark

 

### KING'S LANDING

The day in King’s Landing had come to be clear and warm, accompanied by the sounds of the bustling markets and ports being carried in the breeze. King’s Landing had once been the capital of the Crownlands, and the jewel of the Targaryen Dynasty. Through time, House Targaryen had continued to revolt against the Baratheon kings and found their borders shrinking in favour of the expanding Stormlands. During the last Targaryen Rebellion, one Stannis Baratheon under the orders of his father, then king Gendry Baratheon, sacked King’s Landing. Upon arriving in King’s Landing, its true state of disuse and squalor was discovered. Since the Baratheon takeover, King’s Landing has undergone a metamorphosis and is a direct reflection of the thriving Baratheon Dynasty. Today, the streets and air are clear, and the laughter of children can be heard as they play by the Bay, accompanied by the clashing of their wooden swords. 

Despite the beautiful and enticing weather, Prince Stiles Baratheon currently found himself seated with the members of his father’s Small Council. He could see the gulls circling outside through the open windows, and found himself staring enviously at their wings. He closed his eyes tightly and willed wings to sprout from his back; in the Prince’s eyes, one could only be so lucky as to avoid the pain of enduring Small Council meetings. After a few moments he reluctantly admits defeat and opens his eyes. With a dejected sigh Stiles decides to make an effort, and tunes back into the conversation being had.

“Has the training and contract program maintained its initial success rate?” the King inquires, directing his question towards Lord Deaton, his Master of Coin. 

Deaton smiles at the King, “Yes your Grace. If our projections remain accurate, we should have Fleabottom emptied and ready for the remodelling, all within the year.” 

Stiles found himself raising his eyebrows at Lord Deaton’s statement. When the Master of Laws and Master of Coin originally proposed this initiative, Stiles had found himself laughing alongside many members of the court. Following his father’s coronation, the King had dedicated the majority of his time to improving his citizens’ quality of life. Fleabottom had notoriously been one of the worst slums in all of Westeros, and King John Baratheon made it his mission to rectify that. Emptying Fleabottom seemed like an impossible task, but the initiative had suggested the use of a creative methodology. The residents would be systematically trained in various trades or types of agriculture, and would be relocated across the Stormlands where their new skills were needed. It appears as though the ambitious project can be declared a resounding success. Mother would be proud, Stiles thought. 

Stiles once again retreats back into his thoughts, and turns his attention back to the gulls outside. What kind of king will he be; will he be remembered for his contributions to the realms; how did his father even decide what to do in the morning; maybe he should start finding his own projects. If he was going to figure out what drives and motivates him, he should start with escaping this meeting and spending some time on the beach by Blackwater. Naturally his escape would be for his studies of course. Are princes more or less homicidal when they are allowed to enjoy the sunlight; he would be doing the study for the good of the realm really. 

He is abruptly jarred from his thoughts by a round of laughter from the table. He attempts to feign ignorance and injects his own laughter into the mix, but fails to understand what exactly has come to pass. He directs his attention towards the only member of the council not engaged in laughter, Lord Parris Lannister, the Hand to the King. 

King John Baratheon manages to halt his laughter for a moment, and through great difficulty manages to address the man on his right. “By all means Parris, tell us your true feelings on the matter.”

“I don’t like lizards” Parris replies, as he clenches his jaw and looks down at the parchment in front of him. The laughter around the table quiets, and he looks back at those seated across from him. He lets out an exasperated sigh and sits back in his chair. “They destroy everything, my opinion of them isn’t exactly the minority you know.”

John shakes his head, “Oh I know, they have been a right pain in my ass for years.”

Stiles looks around the table and to his chagrin is unable to decipher what conversation is currently taking place. He wracks his mind but for the life of him can’t seem to place how the conversation was steered from Fleabottom to lizards. 

He decides it is now or never and sits forward in his chair whilst coughing lightly. The attention of the council is redirected towards him, and he distorts his face into a slight grimace. “Lizards…?” he asks, whilst staring back at the inquiring faces. 

Lady Graeme, his father’s Master of Laws smiles at him. “Dragons, Targaryens to be more exact.” 

“Right… dragons… dragons are being discussed because they are… important?”, he places a hopeful expression on his face, but from the corner of his eye can see his father pinching the bridge of his nose. “But dragons aren’t lizards, they don’t do the tongue thing…”He then proceeds to flick his tongue out of his mouth, whilst a loud groan simultaneously sounds from his father’s chair at the head of the table. 

Lord Boyd Mormont raises an eyebrow, and in an emotionless voice interjects into the conversation, “And here I was under the impression that the finite difference between lizards and dragons, was that one breathes fire, and the other does not.” 

Stiles plasters a smirk on his face and winks at Boyd. “Yeah, common misconception, don’t worry though, that is precisely why my genius is present at these meetings.” 

The King levels his son with a hard look. “Stiles, had you been paying attention, like you are meant to be, you would know that we are discussing the impending nuptials between Christophe Targaryen and Laura Stark at Dragonstone.” 

At this statement Stiles finds himself perking up in his seat and leaning his arms forward on the table. “Why are we discussing a marriage ceremony? Is uncle Parris attending said ceremony?” He does not miss the simultaneous flinch that each member of the council places upon his or her face in the wake of his question. 

The Hand takes a long swig of wine from his cup and turns toward the Prince with a tight smile on his face. “No. I will not be attending the ceremony. However, your father shall be going.” He then turns to address the king. “Shall you be travelling by land or sea your Grace?” 

The King nods absently. “Ship will be faster I imagine, less time I will have to spend in the presence of those oh so hospitable Targaryens.” Parris places an innocent expression upon his face, however it does not go unnoticed by the King. He points a finger at the Hand, but is fighting to keep a smile from his face. “Don’t. Don’t even think about it. Even if I decide to travel by ship, that does not give you the expressed consent to send an entire battalion to accompany me as my own personal bodyguards.”

Despite the King’s warning, the façade of innocence remains on Parris’ face. “Of course not your Grace. A troop of mercenaries would be far more cost effective.” 

Despite his best efforts Stiles finds himself giggling in his seat. Lady Graeme lightly digs her elbow into his side as a reprimand, but he can see her fighting to contain her own laughter. He turns his attention back to the Hand. 

“Ensuring your safety is of the utmost importance to the realm. If something were to transpire during your visit to the Crownlands, there would be chaos across all of Westeros.” Parris pauses, and seems to carefully mull over his next choice of words before continuing. “I do not wish to implicate my biases in the decisions of the King, however as your advisor, I must advise you to be cautious when in the presence of the Targaryens.” 

John seems to consider Parris’ words and gives a small smile towards him. “There is a reason I appointed you Hand of the King, I will always trust you to advise me. Speak to Ser Finstock and have him coordinate the proper number of white cloaks and bannermen to accompany myself.” 

A small smile makes its way to Parris’ face, “Of course your Grace.”

Unable to contain himself any longer, Stiles decides to once again join the conversation. “One could suggest that if the King is attending a wedding between two of the ruling houses, the Prince should also be in attendance.” He then proceeds to flick his eyes between the shocked faces of the council members. 

Deaton broke the stunned silence first, “It would be an excellent opportunity for our young Prince to become more active in the politics of the Kingdom.” Stiles began to enthusiastically nod his head in consent before turning to Lady Tara. 

Lady Tara gives a small snort, “It would be an excellent opportunity for our young Prince to exhibit any interest in the politics of the Kingdom.” Stiles narrows his eyes at her, but nonetheless counts it as a win. 

Ser Cordova nods his head, “It would be a good opportunity to discover if he becomes sick when at sea. No use training him for leading naval battles if he will spend the entire battle hunched over the rail emptying his stomach.” He shifted in his seat to face Boyd, who simply responds with a shrug. Given his glowing reviews, Stiles then turns his attention towards the final council member.

Parris seems to consider the Prince for a long moment and a smirk eventually makes its way to his face. “One can see the benefits in sending the Prince alongside you. After all, perhaps during this visit the Prince will learn where he is to drive his horns into a dragon, should the necessity arise.” Stiles blanches and coughs awkwardly before turning to acknowledge his father. 

“See father, everyone of your esteemed council members feels I should be accompanying you on this important journey of crown representation, merriment and wine drinking.” 

The king’s face is construed in a look of utter scepticism. “Stiles, the last time someone in court so much as mentioned the word marriage around you, you proclaimed that in order to forgo a betrothal, you would run away to the Summer Isles and declare yourself the God of Cock and Wine.” 

Stiles instantly felt the heat rising in his neck and face, and could only imagine that he was turning a bright shade of red, one that would undoubtedly put the Lannister crest to shame. He began alternating between keeping his mouth firmly shut in denial and opening his mouth to protest. After a few minutes he finally managed to string together a less than eloquent rebuttal. “I errr umm… doubt those were…the exact words used.” 

A derisive snort came from Boyd. “Those were the. Exact. Words. Used.” Stiles turned and scowled at Boyd, earning him a pleased smile in response. Stiles decided to not let this sudden betrayal hinder his chances, and once again turned to address his father. 

“One could argue that the best way to encourage a prince with an aversion to marriage, would be to allow him the chance to participate in the wondrous experience of attending a ruling house wedding.” The King merely cocked an eyebrow in response; Stiles took this as an indication to keep talking. “If you want me to concede defeat and accept my fate of having to take a husband, you should at least let me out of King’s Landing once in awhile. I need to spread my wings, expand my horizons or whatever.” He finishes this statement with a flailing hand gesture, in regards to what exactly this whatever is, and then tries to force his face into a mask of utter despair and longing; his father appears to be unconvinced. 

The King lets out a deep sigh and shakes his head. “Stiles if I let you go, you have to follow the rules put down, understood?” 

A bright smile immediately appears on Stiles’ face. “Of course dad, anything.”

“Right, about that,” the King continues sceptically, “You will be drinking very limited wine, you will not be disrespectful towards any members of the noble houses, and most importantly try to actively give a shit once in awhile.” The smile has yet to fade from the Prince’s face and he is nodding his head enthusiastically in response to his father’s compromise. The King continues, “I am serious Stiles. House Stark hasn’t been on good terms with House Targaryen for many years, this is very delicate situation.”

The Prince shifts excitedly in his seat and once again delves into his private thoughts. He has finally received permission to leave the capital, and all without even having to utter empty threats. Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip and allows his mind to drift through the multiple scenarios that could arise: maybe everyone in Dragonstone will be as fake as they are in the capital; perhaps he will slip up and enrage a dragon or two; or the most outlandish, maybe he will meet someone. He takes a moment to look about the room and sees that the tense atmosphere appears to have lifted. The council members have once again continued on with their talks, disregarding his presence at the table. He finds himself quite content with this development, and begins to stretch out in his seat and find a more comfortable position. After all, no one truly expects him to pay attention anyway. 

The meeting seems to drag on for hours, and after a rousing afternoon of counting the leaves in the mosaic on the ceiling, Stiles finds the meeting coming to close. The business talks have dissolved and after a few minutes of small talk, the members of the Small Council begin to leave one by one. For the first time in the day, he finds himself alone at the table with his father. His father is slouched down in his seat and swirling around the remnants of wine in his cup, a look of utter concentration appears to be spread across his face. He takes a moment and watches his father, and after weighing the pros and cons decides to draw his attention. 

“So… any chance you are willing to explain what the deal is between uncle Parris and the Targaryens,” Stiles says slowly. 

“Hmm,” his father says as he slowly lifts his gaze and acknowledges his son. He chuckles, “I figured you would have left already with the others.” 

Stiles shifts in his seat and patiently waits for him to continue. 

“Do you ever actually open any of the history books I give you,” his father asks. The silence is deafening and Stiles feels knots begin to form in his stomach. The King sighs and then continues, “The tournament done in celebration of my coronation, your uncle Parris was participating on behalf of House Lannister, and one Christophe Targaryen was participating on behalf of his own house. Both as it turns out, were competing in the joust and had their hopes on winning the tournament. As you should know, any victor of a tournament is awarded with a wreath of flowers, a wreath they often present to an individual whom they wish to court. Both of these young men had a beautiful woman in mind, and if they were victorious, planned on presenting the wreath to her in front of the attending crowd.” The King pauses and drains his cup before continuing, “Parris Lannister had intended to crown Laura Stark as his queen of love and beauty, as it turns out he lost the tournament to one Christophe Targaryen.” 

Stiles remains quiet. He is not surprised that something like this would happen, but he has a gnawing feeling in his gut that there is more to this tale. He takes a calming breath and nods at his father to continue. 

The King drums his fingers against the table and then continues “Now, there are multiple accounts of this story, so I want you to use your own judgement and formulate your own opinions,” he waits for Stiles to nod his head before continuing. “The majority of witnesses believe that the winning lance used by the Targaryen was tipped. That being said, one either believes Christophe himself acted alone, or his family perpetrated this act of treachery without his knowledge.” The king stops for a moment to collect his thoughts and absently runs a hand over his tired face. He sighs and looks back at Stiles, “Now, winning a tournament by cheating is already a grave offense. Winning a tournament by a utilizing a tipped lance is an even graver offense. Winning a tournament in honour of the newly crowned king, by using a tipped lance is simply, in a word, unforgiveable. The kicker however, is that upon winning the tournament, Christophe Targaryen awarded the wreath of flowers to one Laura Stark. 

Stiles frowns at his father, “Wait, you mean the wedding that we are attending, all came out of this.” His waves his hands around in the air before continuing, “The possibly tipped lance, and the backhanded wooing kicked off this very same wedding,” he asks incredulously. 

The King smiles at his son and chuckles, “One in the same kid, one in the same. There is a reason that your uncle Parris has yet to marry, and it isn’t because he simply has far too much gold for anyone to find him appealing.” 

Stiles grimaces and looks down at the table, “So when I asked Parris if he was attending the wedding…”

The King picks up the wine and reaches over to fill Stiles’ cup and then fills his own. “You might want to apologize to him for that, though I am sure he knows you didn’t mean to offend. The politics between the ruling houses of Westeros is a messy business, but in terms of entertainment, it beats having to read letters from Rafael Arryn on his proposed Onion Taxes,” the King chuckles and takes a long sip from his cup. 

Stiles stares down at the contents of his cup for a long moment before looking up at his father, “Politics is fucked up,” he states. 

The king breaks out in a boisterous laugh and claps his son on the shoulder, “I will drink to that any day,” he clinks cups with his son and the two soon slip into easy conversation.

### WINTERFELL

It was a cold and damp day in Winterfell, but the weather was doing little to extinguish the spark of excitement in the air. A little wind and sleet will never hinder the lives of true northerners, for they have survived much worse. Given the numerous tales of survival in the North, there is a widespread belief among many that life in the North is lacking the luxuries found in the South. One could assume that these individuals have never set foot inside Winterfell. The sprawling complex is several acres in size, and is built on top of a natural hot spring; and as such is an architectural wonder. Despite its age, the ancestral fortress continues to be a shining beacon within the North, and a reminder of how capable northerners are. Today one finds the old fortress alive with the anxious chatter of northerners, the topic: the impending nuptials of Laura Stark.

Lady Talia Stark can be found gathered with her daughters Laura and Cora within the main courtyard of the castle. She, as well as anyone in the North, understands the importance of the impending nuptials. As such, she has found herself praying to the Gods that her daughters are in complacent moods and willing to heed her warnings. Her eldest daughter Laura is brimming with excitement and can barely sit still. In contrast, her youngest Cora looks like she would rather be facing down a bear than sitting next to her sister. 

The Starks and the Targaryens have been feuding for generations, and it would be a lie to say that Christophe’s interest in Laura hadn’t come as a surprise. She and her husband had expected disinterest from Laura when she was presented with the wreath of flowers at John Baratheon’s tournament. They had not expected Laura to jump head first into the courtship and plead with her parents to allow the betrothal.  
Talia finds that she is carrying many reservations towards this union, but is unable to deny her eldest the happiness she deserves.  
This is how she now finds herself, staring down two she-wolves who both look ready to bolt at the first word. Talia takes a deep breath and prepares for what she imagines will be a trying conversation. 

“As the two of you know, House Stark and House Targaryen are not on the best of terms,” Laura goes to interject, but one look from her mother has a sheepish look appearing on her face instead. “As I was saying,” Talia continues, “whilst your father and I are both elated for this joining of our houses, and end to hostilities, we want to ensure that this ceremony goes off without a hitch.” 

In response to their mother, Cora rolls her eyes, whilst Laura looks offended that her mother would even suggest she was capable of acting out of order at her own wedding. 

Talia takes a moment to catalogue their responses before continuing, “This is exactly the attitude I am referring to. Laura, darling, I understand this is your wedding, and we want it to be a memorable moment for the right reasons. I do not expect anything but the best from you, and I know you will not disappoint me. However, I need to remind you that despite Chris’ love for you, not all Targaryens share the same amicable feelings.” 

Laura’s face crumbles minutely, but she quickly steels it back into a determined expression. “I understand mother, I will do my best to be magnanimous in the face of adversity.”

A loud snort comes from Cora in reply, “Magnanimous? You are going to be Lady of the mad dragons, not Queen of the nine realms.” 

Laura turns to face her sister and slightly bares her teeth in response, “Yes, I am going to be the Lady of the Crownlands, and I will happily lead my people beside Christophe. Not all Targaryens are mad, and with my arrival I will do everything in my power to make myself beloved by the people.” With that she turns back to her mother with a cool smile upon her lips. 

Cora takes a moment to mull over her sister’s words and then schools her own voice into an icy tone, “Oh really? And what happens when the mad dragons want you dead? Who are your supposed people going to follow; the wolf from the North or their own destructive beasts?” 

Laura chooses to ignore her sister’s jab and instead keeps her gaze fixated upon her mother. 

Talia takes a moment to regain her calmness and address her daughters. “This talk stops right here, right now. There will be no more use of the words mad, beasts or anything of the sort.” Talia takes a moment to look around and then cautiously lowers her voice before continuing, “The Targaryens are dangerous, and we as a family are going to do nothing jeopardize the future of one of our own. We are direwolves of House Stark. We are a pack and we take care one another. I will not have you two at each other’s throats in the days leading up to what should be one of the happiest days of Laura’s life. Do you both understand?”

At these words, Cora’s face softens and she turns to look at her sister, “I’m sorry Laura. I know we don’t always get along, but I don't understand, we are family. Why do you want to leave us so badly... I don't want to lose you to them."

Laura smiles at her sister and tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear, “Cora, no one is going to lose me. I am just moving to a new realm where I can start a family of my own. I will always be a wolf and I will always come visit. Besides, if mom should be giving the behave yourself talk to anyone, it should be Derek, not us.”

Cora laughs at her sister’s words and an easy smile makes its way across her face. She looks up at where her brother, uncle and father stand atop the bridge between the Armoury and Great Keep. 

Talia follows her line of sight, “Oh don’t worry, I am sure your father and uncle are giving your brother the exact same conversation.” 

Atop the bridge next to the courtyard, one finds Lord Brandon Stark, his brother Peter and his son and heir Derek. They are leaning against the railing and have been the source of the easy laughter heard throughout the castle. Between the three of them, they have made their way through more cups of wine than they can count and are participating in a conversation regarding Laura’s union, much like the conversation below them. 

Brandon who had been looking out across the courtyard, turns to acknowledge his son, “Derek, the first thing you need to know about the Targaryens, is that their words are as infected with lies, as a tavern wench is with syphilis.” 

Derek, who had been in the process of taking a sip of wine, finds himself choking on it and spitting some out onto the ground below. His uncle smacks him on the back a few times in a pitiful attempt to provide some form of relief, whilst wholeheartedly laughing at his brother’s statement. When Derek finally manages to get his coughing under control, he turns to his father and raises his eyebrows in question. 

Peter, who was still chuckling at the turn of events, takes pity on Derek, “What my eloquent brother is trying to say, is that the Targaryens are not to be trusted. They are a notoriously dangerous bunch and have little regard for the lives of others; others meaning anyone who isn’t a dragon by birth.” 

Brandon grunts in affirmation and takes another sip of wine, “It is shame that she didn’t pursue that Lannister. Wife to Hand of the King is nothing to sneer at.” 

Derek furrows his eyebrows for a moment before looking at his uncle, “A Lannister? Weren’t you married to a Lannister before?”

Peters sighs and nods his head, “Yes I was, and then we ran into some bloody fucking dragons and look how well that turned out.”

“Fucking dragons,” Brandon acquiesces before topping off Peter’s cup. “One can only hope they don’t try anything this time.” 

Derek drains his cup and stares at the bottom in contemplation before holding it out in front of his uncle. Peter begins to fill it as Derek addresses his father, “They shouldn’t and besides they have already been warned. The house words, Winter is Coming. They attack one of the pack and they will have all the wolves of the North at their throats.” 

Peter finishes topping off Derek’s cup whilst considering his words, “Ah, but what you are forgetting my dear nephew, is that the Targaryens are one sibling fuck away from actually producing three headed children. I would be most surprised if any were still capable of higher brain function.” He takes a sip of his wine and then continues, “What they really are is an overachieving lot. They don’t have a lot going for them, so instead they have dedicated all their time and resources into becoming the very embodiment of their house crest.” Peter looks over to see Derek and Brandon shaking in laughter and decides there is no point in stopping his tirade now. “I mean, look at my brother and yourself. You two can grow an impressive face of fur as good as any wolf, but no matter what, neither of you will ever achieve the ability to grow a tail. Now the Targaryens, they could do it, hells they probably already have.” 

Following those words both Brandon and Derek were howling with laughter and wiping tears from their eyes, whilst Peter's face now wears a very satisfied grin. 

Derek is able to regain some semblance of composure first, “If they really are the dragons they claim to be, maybe we should suggest dumping a barrel of wildfire on Christophe, just to ensure Laura is indeed marrying a true dragon.” 

Brandon has a large smile painted on his face when he turns to his son, “Honestly, Gerard is probably boastful and mad enough to go along with it.” Derek merely snorts and shakes his head in response. 

“Do you think we could get away with suggesting the whole family, for reassurance purposes of course,” Peter asks airily. 

Brandon shrugs his shoulders in contemplation and turns towards both Peter and Derek. “I suppose we could simply invite our Skagg bannermen, and tell them that since the Red Wedding it is now customary in Westeros to kill the host family,” he adds with a dry tone. 

Derek’s face grows serious at this statement and he takes a moment to look out over the courtyard and find his sisters laughing alongside his mother. “If any dragon ever harmed my sister, there would be no need to call upon the Skagg bannermen, as I would not hesitate to tear out their throat myself.” 

Peter turns and looks upon Derek with proud eyes, “I second that nephew, it has been too long since I last killed a dragon.”

Derek’s face contorts into one of pure astonishment as he gazes upon his uncle, “When did you kill a Targaryen? Any why have I never heard of this?” 

A smug smile has found it’s way to Peter’s face, “Oh no, not a Targaryen, a dragon, a real fire breathing, mass murdering beast,” he spits out. At these words Derek directs his gaze towards his father.

Brandon nods his head in verification but his face remains stony, “He is telling the truth that he has indeed killed a dragon, a small one, but a dragon all the same. The thing was wreaking havoc in Essos and he put it down. Nasty creature.” He once again turns to look out over the courtyard and finds himself drawing in a long shaky breath before continuing, “What you need to know about dragons, is that their size is irrelevant, each beast is as dangerous as the next. There will never come a day, where a dragon decides they no longer want to burn everything in their path. Fortunately there are some individuals,” he nods to Peter, “Whom are capable of ridding the land of them, before more innocents are harmed.” 

Derek remains silent in contemplation before shifting his gaze to once again fall upon his uncle. He is shocked to find that he does not recognize the man in front of him. A twisted dark mask has covered the once smiling features of his uncle. He had always thought that two of them were close, but now, he finds that he does know the man before him; and that worries him. Derek takes a steadying breath and tries to remove the concern from his face. 

In contrast, his uncle’s gaze remains heavy on the horizon. “In actuality, the real thing isn’t that different from the Targaryens. You read all about them, and how despite their faults, they are just doing what is necessary to survive. You think that maybe once you lay eyes upon one in person, that perhaps they are not the monsters everyone makes them out to be,” at this his voice shifts from a cold drawl, to a snarl, “However, I am telling you that they are every bit the plague they are made out to be. Be cautious when in Dragonstone nephew, do not let yourself be fooled by them, or it may be the last thing you do.” 

"They are abominations, the lot of them," his father adds. 

Wine forgotten, Derek feels a shiver crawl up his spine; a shiver he knows it is not from the falling rain. The once joyous laughter that had filled the bridge has now been replaced by the howling wind. The three men gaze down upon the women in the courtyard and stand shoulder to shoulder in comfortable silence, diligently watching over their pack.


	3. Killing kings is weary work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. A note for the mpreg; there is no stigma associated with this. All males are valued the same regardless if they able to carry children or not. It is not an identifying feature, it is not a plot point, it isn't something that people would use to describe one another. It is simply something that someone is or isn't capable of doing. Individuals who are capable of giving birth are not necessarily small, effeminate or weak, they are still men and still do manly things like killing people, fixing things and cooking outdoors. 
> 
> II. The chapters are not on a rotation of houses, the places featured are wherever the plot needs to advance at said time. So you may go 5 chapters before ending up in Sunspear, or you may get 2 chapters in a row where a section is in Highgarden.

  


 

### DRAGONSTONE

At the mouth of Blackwater Bay, near the treacherous Narrow Sea, one finds the imposing island of Dragonstone. The isle of Dragonstone is a volcanic island, and whilst normal men would refuse to reside in such a place, the Targaryens do not fear fire. The fortress itself is located at the base of the active volcano and is an ominous sight. When the Targaryens constructed Dragonstone, they carved the citadel directly out of the black stone and obsidian. Each of the towers is capped with a twisted caricature of a dragon, reminding visitors that they are forever being watched. In fact the architectural designs of the castle are in their own right, dangerous enough to take a life. The staircases are narrow and winding, and framed with spikes, in an attempt to emulate a dragon’s tail. However, the watchtower is perhaps the most precarious place to find one’s self. At the peak of the tower one finds a large beacon of wildfire forever burning. The Targeryens claim wildfire was the only option, in the face of the vicious storms that pummel the island. However, many believe it is their reminder to Westeros of the destruction that could be unleashed, should they be crossed. 

On this evening, one finds the island of Dragonstone under siege from such a storm. The waves crash against the black cliffs, as the rains hammer down upon the stone monstrosity. Inside the Stone Drum, the central keep of Dragonstone, one finds the Targaryen family seated together in discussion. Whilst the dragons on the towers are bearing the brunt of the storm, one finds these dragons seated around a great fire. The hearth in the Stone Drum is sculpted to resemble to skull of a large dragon and protrudes out of the keeps’ walls. The beast’s jaws are wide open and between the rows of obsidian teeth is a roaring fire. In front of the hearth is a long table, where the members of the Targaryen family are currently seated at a meal. 

At the head of the table is the head of House Targaryen, Gerard. By a simple glance one can tell that his health is beginning to fade. His skin is a sickly pallor, and any hair he once had has fallen from his head. As he reaches for his cup of wine, one can see the shake in his hands and the weakness in his grip. Despite the raging fire next to him, he is covered in many cloaks and appears hunched forward in an attempt to conserve his body heat. The deterioration of his body is a slow one, and despite his illness, Death refuses to come for him. However, the God of Death claimed his mind many years ago. Gerard is a mad as a rogue dragon, and just as deadly. 

At his left sits his brother and spouse, Alexander. Despite not suffering from the same illness as his brother, he is not the caricature of health. His robes hide the degree of his decline, but one does not miss the skeletal wrists that peak out from a cuff, or the sunken in eyes and cheeks that grace his face. If fire cannot harm a dragon, then surely the dampness of Dragonstone does little to heal one. The fire inside this dragon is but a flickering flame, and should he fall, any hope of containing the wrath of the Targaryens will burn out with him. 

Their son and heir Christophe sits to Gerard’s right. Unlike his parents, he is found to be in good health, but suffering from a bout of anxiety. His impending wedding should be a joyous occasion, however one will find him teetering on an edge. His family does not approve of his bride to be. Instead their reluctant agreement to the union can be found hidden deep within ulterior motives. He finds himself unable to eat, and has instead resorted to pushing the food around his plate.

To his right, is his twin sister Kate. In an attempt to sooth her brother’s worries, she is running her left hand through the hairs at the nape of his neck, and across his shoulders. She may vehemently refuse to accept her brother’s bride as a worthy match, but she cares dearly for Chris and shows true concern for his current state. There is no doubt that she loves her brother, the question is if she has crossed the line into infatuation. She is aware that he will be the next head of House Targaryen, and that he is a true dragon, thus by her mind he deserves to marry no less than one of his own. She spares a glance at her brother’s face and frowns before turning back to her own plate. She spears a piece of meat on her fork and holds it out in front of her brother’s face, Chris side eyes his sister and frowns, but after a minute chooses to give in accepts the offering. 

Across from Chris and Kate, sits the final dragon their younger sister Allison. The food on her plate is forgotten as she watches the actions of her sister and brother. She has never truly questioned the nature of the relationship between them, but she finds herself growing concerned. Their twins, of course they are close… but this… this is something else. Kate had been furious when her parents had allowed Chris to court the Stark girl. Originally she had assumed it was just her sister being protective, after all she was protective of her as well. But she has found that as the moons have come and gone, Kate has delved deeper into bitterness, and an emotion she is afraid to call jealousy. 

She understands having a duty to one’s house; she herself is guilty of doing what is necessary for them to survive. She once said that she would never use her friends in order to please the whims of her father, those words are now no more than ash. Of course she loves her friends, but she has a duty to her family, one she cannot ignore. She wonders how many more friends she will betray before her father is pleased with her. 

As if compelled by the Gods himself, her father’s cold eyes fall upon her and he calls for her attention. 

“Allison, should I be worried that you have yet to tell me of your success, or have you done what I asked of you,” Gerard questions before he falls victim to a fit of coughing. 

Allison nervously flicks her eyes to the faces around the table and sees that everyone is now gazing upon her with curiosity. “I have done what you asked. It was…” she pauses for a moment to relax her breathing and closes her eyes before continuing, “a challenge, but one I was able to defeat.” She opens her eyes and schools a smile upon her lips; praying her father can’t see through it. If the wicked grin upon his face is any indication, she has succeeded. 

Gerard claps his hands together with excitement before once again addressing his daughter, “Excellent my dear. Now tell me clever girl, how did you find this information?” 

Allison’s eyes widen minutely as her internal battle begins. Shit. Gods be damned. Not only has she now used her friends; her father will have their names. She can’t lie to him, somehow he will know. She could try being vague, but the likelihood of that working is dismal at best. Her father’s coughing brings her back to the present and she has no choice but to lie in the bed she has made for herself. 

“Lady Lydia of House Tyrell. She was quite willing to… discuss the various learned skills that her family specializes in,” from the corner of her eye she can see that Kate has cocked an eyebrow in interest. Damn, she doesn’t need to fall pray to two inquisitive dragons. 

“Hmmm,” Kate drawls, “And what did the little wilting flower have to say about her family?” 

Allison shifts her gaze from her father to her sister and tries to place a look of nonchalance upon her face before replying, “She was able to inform me of who in her family, would know the precise mixture of a certain… tincture.” 

Kate looks to her father in skepticism, “Tincture, really? We had to ask the weeds of Westeros about a tincture?” Beside her Chris shakes his head but a smirk can be seen playing on lips. Kate responds to him with a grin of her own. 

A look of utter excitement graces Gerard’s face as he gazes upon his youngest daughter, “Come now Allison, don’t be so gracious,” his voice booms, “Tell your sister what you have truly accomplished!”

Thankfully Kate still seems bored with the discussion, but she cannot disregard her father’s orders. She stares down at the table and draws in a shaky breath, “The Strangler,” she says quietly. 

The reaction of her family is nothing less than expected: Alexander drops his cup and wine spills across the table; Chris nearly stabs his hand with the knife he was using to mince his untouched supper; Kate has contorted her face into an expression of pure shock; Gerard looks as though someone handed him the dreaded dragon Balerion himself. Allison feels sick. 

Alexander breaks the silence first, “Allison, you magnificent girl, how did you find this,” a tone of wonder fills his voice. Allison thinks if she weren’t so ashamed of her actions, she would be able to enjoy the look of pride that her mother has placed upon her. 

“I told you, I spoke to Lady Lydia.”

“Oh no sweetheart, you didn’t tell us anything,” Kate twirls her knife in her hand before continuing, “You told us that one of those Tyrell girls talked about the wonders of her family’s unhealthy obsession with flowers, nothing about The Strangler.”

Chris looks from Kate to Allison, “I was under the impression, that the Maesters of the Citadel in the Reach had destroyed the recipe for the poison.” Following Chris’ words a smug look finds its way to Kate’s face and she nods her head innocently. 

Kate places an airy tone upon her voice, “As did I brother of mine,” she turns to Allison, “So little sister, do tell, how did you come across something that does not exist,” she leans back in her chair and raises her eyebrows in a challenge. 

Allison grits her teeth and an edge works its way into her voice, “The recipe was not destroyed by the Maesters. It was moved to a more secure location.” 

Kate sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes, “No one is going to believe you if you don’t stop being so vague, she waves her right hand in a hurry up motion, “Come on, don’t keep us waiting little one.”

Alexander interjects before Allison can respond, “Kate,” a simple word, yet the warning is heard clear as day. Both Chris and Kate sit straighter in their chairs and the self-satisfied grins have been wiped from their faces. Allison smiles at her mother in thanks. 

“As I was saying, the Maesters destroyed nothing. A member of the Tyrell family visited the Citadel, a family member who is a gifted healer.” She looks at her mother and upon receiving an encouraging smile continues, “Lady Melissa Arryn, born Melissa Tully, and daughter of a Tyrell.” 

“A birdbrain…” Kate replies dryly. 

Gerard is the one to reprimand on this occasion, “Kate, unlike you, your sister has accomplished something extraordinary for her house, give her the respect she deserves,” his fist meets the table in a thunderous bang. 

Kate stills and merely nods in acquiesce to her father, but there is anger behind her eyes. Chris places a hand upon her shoulder in an attempt to placate her; Allison does not miss the look of longing the flickers across her face in response. 

The atmosphere in the room has changed. Allison does not enjoy Kate’s jabs, but she understands that as an older sister, Kate is going to pick on her from time to time. However, since her father spat the insult at Kate, she feels nothing but waves of loathing rolling off of her, it is an experience she does not wish to feel again. 

Allison shifts in her seat nervously and begins to gnaw on her lip. 

“Continue your story Allison,” Alexander says quietly, you have earned this recognition; do not let your sister spoil it for you. Be proud of what you have accomplished for your house. 

Allison looks to her parents and sees nothing but love in their faces; the knots in her stomach loosen. “Lady Melissa Arryn. She retrieved the recipe from the Citadel and took it with her to the Vale. It is now hidden away within the impenetrable walls of the Eyrie.” 

She takes another deep breath, “I have been in contact with… with.... her son.” Oh gods, how many of her friends is she going to betray in one day. Scott has done nothing to deserve this; all he did was offer his friendship. 

This appears to have gotten her brother’s interest, “Lord Scott Arryn? What were you doing talking with the Arryn boy,” Chris clenches his jaw and looks to Allison for answers. 

Allison schools her face into an expression of faux innocence, “Oh, nothing. We have been talking, exchanging ravens. One of those ravens happened to have been carrying the instructions as to how one is to prepare the poison.” Despite the excited chatter of her mother and father, she can barely hear them above the blood rushing in her ears. That’s it, she betrayed the person who has shown her only compassion and trust. Stupid boy, he should have just ignore her ravens, like she would have his. 

“And where is this letter, that contains these instructions,” Kate inquires. 

“I burned it.”

“I am assuming you wrote it down at least,” Kate replies with a tone of faux concern lacing her voice. 

Allison feels an edge creep its way into her voice, “No. I burned it so that there was no evidence. We cannot be implicated in the death, if no one can prove it.” 

“Very clever,” Gerard says, “I imagine that being the bright girl you are you have it locked away inside your head.”

Allison can’t help but preen at her father’s praise. “The poison is only made from plants that are found on the islands in the Jade Sea. The leaves of the plants are then picked and aged, and soaked in a wash of limes, sugar water and rare spices from the Summer Islands. One can then burn any trace of the leaves to limit the evidence. Keep the liquid and thicken it with ash. Once it has crystallized, it will turn a deep purple colour; a colour perfect for being disguised within a goblet of wine.” 

Alexander is holding his hands in front his mouth and looks close to tears. Gerard is happier than she has ever seen him. A little voice in the back of her mind tells her that she did well; the happiness of her family is worth the betrayal of her friends. 

“I have had Scott send me various plants of rare origin over the span of many moons. I felt that asking for an abundance of plants and spices from Essos, the Jade Sea and the Summer Islands would help lower his level of suspicion. It appears to have worked.” 

Chris’ face is closed off and cold when he turns to his father, “Are the Arryns invited to my wedding? The boy would look excellent with a target painted upon his back for the King’s Guard.” 

Allison feels the blood drain from her face. No. Not like this. Not Scott, he already played his role. He was just the stupid boy who would give her the plants; he isn’t supposed to be framed. He hasn’t done anything to deserve death. She can feel her pulse jump and darkness begins to creep into the corners of her vision, she grips the edge of the table in an attempt to ground herself. Is this the fate that will befall all her friends? She may have used them as a means to an end, but the kindness they bestowed upon her was real; their friendships are real. 

How can she call herself their friend; all she has done is sign their death sentences. They have aided her in her task of restoring the former glory of House Targaryen, yet she can’t do anything to save them. How can she be so weak that she can’t even save the silly boy from the Vale, she doesn’t want to be weak.

“The Arryns,” Gerard stops and thinks, “Yes, I do believe Lord Rafael and his boy are making an appearance. It couldn’t hurt to supply someone for the suspicion to fall upon. After all the death of the King is sure to require a thorough investigation even if the Strangler is a notoriously fast acting poison. A few sips of wine and the King will no longer be able to breath. A quick death but an agonizing one.”

Allison can feel her breaths grow short, and tears begin to form in her eyes. She can’t let this happen, she can’t fail them. She pulls in a long shaky breath and closes her eyes. No, she isn’t weak. Dragons are not weak. She tightens her hands into fists and as she opens her eyes she finds that the darkness is beginning to recede. 

She is Allison of House Targaryen, she is the blood of dragons and she will not allow her friends to fall victim when all they have done is diligently serve the blood of old Valyria. Scott should be heralded for his role in aiding the Targaryens, not punished. She will not let her friends fall upon a sword. 

“No, you won’t blame him,” she says quietly. 

“Hmmm,” Gerard inquires. 

“Scott has done nothing but help us, is this how you reward those loyal to House Targaryen,” she tries to hide the tremor in her voice, she will not fail Scott. 

Chris grits his teeth, “He is of no more use to us. The little lord has served his purpose. We will simply give him one more role to play.” Allison tries to keep her face calm and digs her nails into the palms of her hands. 

Alexander carefully studies Allison’s face, “Is he enamoured with you? Do you think you can control him?”

Praise the Gods for her mother; at least one of her family members is merciful. “Of course. He would do anything I ask.” Gerard furrows his brow in response. “He… he would go to war for us, if I asked him to,” she says quickly. At that a smile begins to form on Gerard’s face. 

“Irrelevant. He is not the Lord of the Vale, Rafael Arryn is,” Chris argues to his father.

Kate clucks her tongue, “No, he isn’t. But I imagine he could split the Vale in two and take a number of the bannermen with him.” At this Chris shoots her a stony glare, which she responds to with a simple shrug. “I hate to say it, but Allison is right. We could still use him, especially if he is wrapped around our little Ally’s finger,” She offers a warm smile to her sister, and Allison returns it in kind. 

Chris huffs and turns to his father, “Then whom exactly are we going to be using? Someone will have to answer for the death of the King.” 

Alexander taps his now empty cup against the table, “His own cup bearer should suffice. The poison goes into the wine, there is no reason to suspect anyone but the power hungry hoard from King’s Landing.” 

Chris nods his head, “It is plausible. And what of the prince? He will undoubtedly undergo coronation and take his seat on the Iron Throne.” 

A twisted grin makes its way to Kate’s face, “We string the little prince up by his feet, and slit him open from throat to belly,” she stabs her knife into the meat in front of her and twirls it in front of her face, “and then we roast him like the chunk of venison he is,” she then proceeds to tear the meat from the knife with her teeth. 

Gerard shakes his head in amusement, “I enjoy your enthusiasm Kate, but we shall be doing no such thing. The prince is young and foolish; he will fail on his own without our help. From what I have heard the prince has no interest in politics and has failed to begin his search for a husband, he is of little use to the realm besides assuming the title.” 

Alexander turns his gaze towards his son, “And of course, once conflict breaks out across the realms, we will no longer have to worry about the Starks intervening,” he raises his cup towards Chris in a toast.

“Laura has nothing to do with this, I am marrying for love. This plan-“ he breaks off with a huff and runs his hands through his dishevelled hair, “This plan does not concern her or what we feel for each other.” 

Kate sneers and her voice turns icy, “Ah yes, your darling little Laura. At least your pathetic flea ridden wife will now serve a purpose. The Starks will be forced to sit back and watch as we retake the Iron Throne, or else they will watch her head be removed from her shoulders.” 

“You. Will. Not. Touch. Her,” Chris manages to grit out through his clenched teeth.

Kate releases a wicked laugh in response, “Oh dear brother, I will do whatever I please.” 

Alexander narrows his eyes at Kate, “No Kate you will not. Laura is a valuable bargaining chip,” he turns his attention towards Chris, “Regardless of why she is here. The Starks will never allow harm to come to one of their own.”

Allison spares a cautious glance at her sister and finds that she has her face twisted into a sneer, but appears to back down following her mother’s words. Allison has never met a Baratheon but she knows they are responsible for the plights upon her house and family, aiding in removing them from the Iron Throne is more than she could have asked for. 

As for the Starks, she has only met Laura a number of times; she fails to see the attraction. Objectively speaking she is a beautiful woman, but she is wolf, and a dragon does not cater the whims of a wolf. She finds herself reluctantly agreeing with Kate, her brother deserves better. 

However, she does agree with her mother, their acquisition of Laura will help limit the amount of conflict in the Crownlands. Ultimately House Targaryen should be able to take back its stolen land; and if all the Baratheons fall, they should also be able to annex the Stormlands, finally allowing their people to receive the lives they deserve. 

Allison turns her attention towards her parents, “If the Starks refuse to join the conflict, what houses would support the remaining Baratheons?

Kate hums for a moments and taps her knife against her chin, “The Lannisters naturally; I suppose the Florents, and if they join, the Tyrells will do the opposite; I doubt the Tullys or Martells would have much interest in the matter. The Arryns will either remain neutral, or thanks to little Ally—” Kate smiles fondly, “We will have their support… the Greyjoys are a work in progress. He would have a well funded military, but no one to tell him how to lead it.”

“The Hand,” Chris spits out.

Gerard waves his hand dismissively, “Lannisters have gold not brains. The Hand will not be able to help the little stag save his Kingdom from chaos.” 

Alexander takes Gerard’s hand in his own and runs his thumb over his knuckles, whilst doing so he looks up and acknowledges his children. “The prince will fail. And his uncle Stannis wouldn’t last a week in King’s Landing before someone put his head on spike.” He pauses for a moment and smiles at his husband. “And once Westeros has been plunged into chaos, and the Baratheon dynasty is dead, we shall take what is rightfully ours with fire and blood.” 

Allison looks back down at her hands and frowns. This is it; she should be ecstatic, so why is it a feeling of dread that has settled in the pit of her stomach. She knows nothing of war, but she knows it is a messy business. The collateral damage is often immense, but who can truly judge each individual. A village may be composed of simple farmers by day, but at night, at night they could be the guerrilla soldiers who let loose the horses and burn the food. The spread of greed and corruption is rampant across the realms, it is time that the dragons once again took flight and burned out the disease. Westeros shall be covered in darkness— and only dragon fire will be able to light the way out.


	4. There was power in his stare, an iron ferocity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. This is your warning for brief descriptions of a Frey Wedding
> 
> II. For those wondering, next chapter is the Targaryen/Stark wedding... it will be a long one.

 

### PYKE

On the western coast of Westeros, in Ironman’s bay, one finds the Iron Islands. The major islands found within the chain are Pyke, Great Wyk, Old Wyk, Harlaw, Saltcliffe, Blacktyde and Orkmont. Despite being small and barely fertile, the Islands were originally colonized and populated by seafaring pirates who used them as a safe place to lay anchor. These pirates would set out in their ships and pillage the near coast of Westeros, more specifically the Riverlands. Upon securing their pillaged goods, they would return to the Isles and remain out of reach from the mainland politics. 

During the early ages of colonization the groups of pirates eventually merged together into a single faction. This faction then sailed for the coast of the Riverlands and laid siege to the area. Instead of returning to the Iron Islands, the Ironborn decided to continue their conquest inland and establish settlements as they went. As such the area of the Riverlands eventually came to be under the control of the Ironborn and their appointed leader, House Greyjoy. 

House Greyjoy follows the words “We Do Not Sow”, which encouraged the Ironborn to simply take what they need from the newly acquire land. The Riverlands, being an area of rich and fertile soil was the logical region for this subjugation to occur. Under House Greyjoy, the Riverlands were subjected to their harsh rule and found themselves at the end of their wits. The Houses in the Riverlands were not established under a ruling house and as such had little organization. They were thus unable to effectively drive the Ironborn from their lands and eventually begun to reach out to other realms for aid. 

They first sought help from the most powerful family in Westeros, the Targaryens. However, the dragon lords merely laughed at them and sent them on their way. With limited options remaining, the Rivermen sent ravens to all the heads of the ruling houses throughout the realms; their luck changed for the better when House Baratheon responded to their pleas. They rallied their Allies in the North and the Westerlands and stormed through the Riverlands with impunity, driving the Ironborn back to the Iron Islands. 

Following their expulsion from the Riverlands, House Greyjoy continued to rule over the Ironborn and encouraged continued raiding on the coastal settlements. In recent years King John Baratheon has forced Quenton Greyjoy to bend the knee and acknowledge the Iron Islands as a realm under his rule. Despite House Greyjoy pledging its fealty to the Crown, they continued to pillage the mainland, and only ceased to do so once the King ordered the Lannister navy to intervene. 

During the conflict, Quenton Greyjoy’s wife was killed when the Lannister blockade prevented her ship from making port on Pyke; her ship was ultimately caught up in a terrible storm and went down into the waves. Following her death, Quenton was strong-armed into making amends with the Crown and signed a peace treaty with the Riverlands. Due to said treaty, the Ironborn are no longer able to acquire resources by looting the mainland, and in order to continue following the Old Way, they are now forced to engage and board trade ships that sail through the surrounding waters. Consequently, the quality of life for the Ironborn has decreased tenfold. Quenton Greyjoy has refused to accept aid from the Crown; be it food, medicine or other necessities. He cites the Ironborn way of life for his reasoning, but many feel it is out of spite for his late wife, that he refuses to accept Baratheon handouts.

If one were to sail upon Pyke today, they would not be able to recognize such information upon first glance. There is not a cloud in the sky and the sun beats down upon the abnormally calm crystalline waters. The land itself may be little more than rock and sand, but the Beach Grass found across the cliffs and the green lichen that covers the stone structures present a façade of thriving life. However, when one takes a closer look, the true nature of Pyke is revealed. The Castle on Pyke was once built upon a piece of rock that jutted out onto the sea. The rock itself has begun to weaken and break away, ultimately disappearing amongst the crashing waves. Whilst the main portion of the stronghold remains firmly seated on solid ground, a number of the watchtowers have found themselves forced out alone onto small stacks of rock, connected only by a number of rope bridges. 

Seated upon one of these bridges is Isaac Greyjoy, the second son of Lord Quenton Greyjoy. His head of curly hair is blowing in the breeze and his face is an image of calmness and serenity. He takes a deep a breath and looks out across into the Bay, allowing a small smile to creep onto his lips. For as much as he dislikes many variables in his life, he harbours no ill feelings towards his home. He understands that the Ironborn have always known a way of life, and that many want to return to the Old Way, but he does not. He feels there is no reason that the Ironborn cannot live as they are but engage in proper trade with the other realms. He finds himself catching his own lie; there is a reason, his father to be more exact. Old, bitter and set in his ways, he would rather watch the Isles and their citizens crumble into the sea than work alongside the Baratheon kings. 

He has not had to deal with his father for a number of days, and as a result he finds himself to be in one of his better moods. One is always aware of when they have been forced to interact with one another; the mottled bruising across his face and arms are a tell tale sign. He has been fortunate to have not had a swollen eye or busted lip for almost a week now, he can’t remember when the last time was that he had such a reprieve. The sun is out, and he can smell the fresh salty air; it is a good day.

A sudden sharp stinging to the right side of his head jerks him out of his happy mood. He brings a hand up to rub the location in question and finds a small amount of blood on his fingers; oh good, just what he always wanted. His eyes search for the offending weapon and he finds a small rock next to his leg, upon looking up he sees his sister Erica leaning against a watchtower and waving. He would really like to know when she decided that simply saying hello like a normal person was too much of an inconvenience. 

With a putout sigh he rises from his seat on the bridge and makes his way over to Erica, “Do you think you could possibly start saying hello, without hitting me in the head with things,” he asks in a dry voice. 

She has a sharp smile on her face and shrugs her shoulders in faux innocence, “I wasn’t aiming for your head, maybe your elbow or something,” her voice grows softer, “I know you have an aversion to having your face touched.” 

“Getting punched in the face repeatedly will do that to a person.”

She lightly punches him in the shoulder, and then proceeds to grab his arm and starts pulling him towards the main section of the castle. “Well, today is a new day and no one is punching anyone,” her gaze quickly drops to his shoulder and sheepish smile makes it way to her face, “In the face anyway.” 

He suspiciously flicks his eyes back and forth between castle Pyke and his domineering sister, “Erica, could you please explain to me why you appear to be dragging me towards our father.” 

Her whole face grimaces and she looks upon Isaac with an apologetic gaze, “I was told that he just wants to talk with us,” Isaac remains unconvinced and starts to dig his heels in the ground, “All of us. Camden will be there too,” she adds quickly. 

Statistically speaking his father is less likely to knock him around when Camden is there, but then again he has become more unpredictable lately. On the Brightside, if he gets this bullshit over with now, he can fuck off for the rest of the day in peace. He winces but nods his head at Erica. She shares a knowing smile with him and her grip on his arm loosens.

They continue their walk towards the Great Keep in silence, after all Erica is likely as worried as he is. It is common knowledge among the Ironborn that his father feels nothing but spite towards him, but few know of Erica’s struggles. She has fits where she collapses upon the ground and her entire body seizes, it is not a pretty sight. Fortunately for her, only a few of their bannermen have been witness to an event; their father made sure of that.

After all, unlike himself, Erica is what our father would call a true Ironborn. She is as cold and deadly as a monster of the deep, and has just a little regard for the opinions of others. That fact their father has chosen to hide her condition from others may seem like an act of love towards his daughter, but it is actually an act of selfishness. She is a fierce captain and the men respect her when she commands them, if they knew of her weakness, well… that would all disappear. If their father wants her to continue to lead raids against trade ships, he is forced to ensure that her condition remains undiscovered. 

The most despicable part of this is that Erica’s condition is treatable. If he would simply accepted the offered Baratheon aid, Erica would be able to easily control her condition. Instead she is only able to procure the medicine through raiding, and is otherwise forced to suffer through her fits. Ultimately, he values his pride more than the lives of his family. 

When they arrive at the Great Keep, they see that their brother Camden is already waiting outside the doors. Upon noticing his siblings he tilts his chin in acknowledgement but the stony expression does not fall away from his face. 

When they approach Camden attempts to pull Isaac aside and out of Erica’s grasp. She once again tightens her grip, and after a brief stare down between brother and sister she reluctantly relinquishes her hold. 

Camden takes a long look at his brother before addressing him, “Isaac… I know that our father and you haven’t always gotten along,” Isaac raises an eyebrow and huffs, Camden ignores his interruption, “But, whatever he has to tell us today, I am begging you to not fight him on it.” 

Isaac narrows his eyes at his brother, “Why are you telling me this,” he asks, after a moment he snaps his fingers in realization, “You know what he wants to talk to us about.” 

Camden claps a hand over Isaacs mouth, “Be quiet,” he hisses through clenched teeth. 

He quickly fleets his eyes across the hall, and when he realizes that none of the guards are paying attention, he finds it acceptable to turn back to his younger brother. “I don’t know for certain, but I have an idea. If father has… chosen you, please do not challenge him. Let. It. Go,” he grates out. 

Given the hand clamped over his mouth, all Isaac can do in response is place an extremely unimpressed expression upon his face. 

Camden’s stony expression begins to crack and Isaac can see concern beginning to bleed into his features, “Do not provoke him. If you do and he strikes you, do not cry, do not cower and do not retaliate. Do you understand,” he asks in a hurried voice. 

Isaac takes a moment to consider his brother’s words. Whatever Camden is alluding to does not sound pleasant. After all he has been taking his father’s shit for years, why would he suddenly feel compelled to retaliate against him, in front of his siblings nonetheless. He reluctantly nods his head in acquiesce and Camden slowly removes his hand from its place on Isaac’s mouth

Camden steps away from Isaac and goes to push open the doors to the keep but suddenly stops and turns on his heel. He looks at both Isaac and Erica, and in an extremely uncharacteristic move, pulls both of his siblings into a bruising hug. Before letting go, he kisses them both on the crowns of their heads, and reluctantly turns back around to push open the doors to the keep. 

Isaac and Erica stare at each other with frozen expressions of fear. Erica reaches out for Isaac’s hand and gives it a long squeeze before they cautiously follow their older brother to the table in the middle of the room. 

Their father is already present at the table and waits for all three of his children to take a seat before he addresses them. “As the three of you know, it has been many decades since the Ironborn were once able to rule over the Riverlands.”

Isaac keeps his face neutral, but his heart is pounding. He has just sat down and his father is already talking about subjugation and pillaging, any hopes for this meeting being a pleasant one have already sunk to the bottom of the Bay. 

“The Tullys are weak and have little pull in their own realm. The time has come for the Ironborn to take back the land they deserve,” Quenton declares with a roar. 

Isaac spares a glance at Erica’s face, but she isn’t giving anything away, not until she meets his eyes and he knows that they are indeed thinking the same thing. There is no scenario where John Baratheon will allow the Ironborn to sail back to the Riverlands and reclaim the land. Honestly, what would they tell him... that they were simply out for a stroll and that all the raiding and looting in their wake, was most definitely not cause by them. Pathetic. 

Quenton clears his throat and continues, “As oppose to the Tullys, the Freys who have recently come to power are a valuable commodity, one we will be receiving the profits from.” He then looks towards Erica, her face blanches. “In order to secure these profits, Erica will be marrying Ethan Frey and will give the Ironborn a legitimate claim to the Riverlands.” 

Isaac’s gaze darts to his sister, her face is contorted in rage; well fuck. 

Erica shrieks in anger, “I will not be marrying some Frey cunt!”

Before her father can respond, she stands from her chair and throws the pitcher of wine at his head. “I will not be marrying a Frey; I will not be warming his bed; and I most certainly will not be allowing his prick anywhere near me,” she belts out in a furious tone. 

Their father’s face contorts into an expression of pure ire and he shoves his chair backwards as he advances towards Erica. He manages to grab a handful of her hair before Isaac finds his body moving without his permission; he bounds across the table and raises his right arm before he can truly comprehend what he is doing. He hears a resounding crack and his hand begins to throb. 

The blood is rushing in his ears and his heart feels like it is about to leap from his chest. He can’t hear what she is saying but Erica appears to be yelling at him and is shoving him towards to door with a panicked expression upon her face. He finds his feat unable to move as he stares at the scene in front of him. Before him his father is splayed across the stone floor and clutching his bleeding face. Isaac looks down to his right hand; it is squeezed tight in the shape of a fist; well... that would explain the throbbing sensation. 

As the noises around him begin to come back into focus, he can hear Erica’s desperate pleas for him to run. His father begins to sit up and reaches for him, but before he can grab hold, Camden has thrown himself in front of Isaac and shoved him backwards. Isaac scrambles and regains his balance and slowly pieces the scene together. 

God be damned. He just punched his father.

Isaac runs. 

He runs from the keep and out of the castle towards to shore. He can feel his breathing grow laboured and his legs tire, but the fear drives him forward. He has never struck his father before, but then again his father has never aimed to strike Erica before. 

When he almost feels as though he cannot run any further, Isaac comes upon a small cave along the coast of the island. He quickly jogs through the knee high water along the shore and enters the cave; a feeling of safety washes over him. When he was a boy his mother used to bring him here. She would watch over him as he played, and teach him the names of the different fish he would try to grab with his fat hands. Now he uses the cave as an escape, somewhere he can go and his father won’t follow. He leans back against the wall and once his breathing returns to normal, he allows the sun to lull him to sleep. 

When he wakes it is dark and there is a pang in his stomach from missing supper. He draws his knees up to his chest and places his arms across them, in an attempt to alleviate the chill from his bones. He can’t go back to the castle, not now; his father is likely to still be tearing the thing apart. 

As he sits weighing his options he sees the light from a lantern bouncing across the waters in front of the cave. As the light draws nearer, he realizes it is his brother Matt approaching, Matt is not his brother like Camden is; Matt is a bastard, but his brother nonetheless. The two of them have a common interest, an unbridled hatred for their father. Both of them have been on the receiving end of his fists and insults for years, it comes as no surprise that both of them would eventually reach their breaking points. 

As Matt enters the cave, Isaac can see that not only has he brought blankets, he has also brought food and drink. Maybe the Drowned God can be merciful. When Matt lays eyes upon Isaac he releases a worried breath and smiles. 

“I was worried, I heard from the grapevine that there was a commotion this afternoon and you came tearing out of the keep like a man possessed,” Matt hands him a blanket and lays another down upon the sand. 

Isaac grimaces, “I punched father.” 

Matt’s entire face lights up with glee, “You did what? Oh God I wish I could have seen that. Please tell me it was as satisfying as I always imagined it being.” 

Isaac takes a moment to consider the question. He had finally stood up his father, he proved that he wasn’t some weakling that could be pushed around; he was a true Ironborn. He looks at Matt and a blinding smile lights up his face, “I made him bleed.”

Matt claps his brother on the back, “I am so proud of you. One of us finally gave that prick what he had coming.” He takes a drink from the flask and then turns back to his brother, “For how much of his day he spends moaning about how the Ironborn, _do not sow_ , he has spent years doing nothing but sowing seeds of contention.” 

Isaac snorts, “Yeah well, as much as I enjoyed knocking him down a peg or two, I now find myself in an interesting situation,” he motions to the cave surrounding them, “Have you by chance noticed that I am currently living in a cave.” 

Matt’s face dawns with realization and he grabs his brother’s forearms and starts shaking him excitedly, “Forget the cave, this is but a minor setback,” he pulls a letter from within the breast of his jacket and waves it in front of Isaac’s face. “In my hands, I have the answer to all our problems.” 

Isaac raises his eyebrows in response and he looks upon his brother with apprehension, “And what exactly is in this letter.” 

Matt is now wearing a very satisfied grin, “Remember how I told you, that I had contacts on the eastern shores,” Isaac nods his head, “Well this is the letter responding to my proposal for a…ah… joint venture of sorts.”

Isaac takes a closer look at the letter in Matt’s hands and upon glancing at the wax seal feels his heart skip a beat; unless his eyes deceive him, he is currently looking upon a three-headed dragon, the Targaryen sigil. 

Upon seeing the recognition on his brother’s face, Matt continues, “If we pledge the support of our naval fleet to the Targaryens, they will give us what we desire most; revenge and recognition.” 

Isaac’s face is one of scepticism, “The Targaryens have no power to do so. The Baratheons are on the Iron Throne, not them.” 

Matt waves his hand dismissively at his brother, “At the moment they aren’t on the Iron Throne. When they decide to take it back, we merely aid them by providing the strength of our navy. Once they have taken back the Iron Throne, they have agreed to do away with father and allow either Camden or yourself to assume rule over the Iron Islands.” 

Isaac cannot contain his glee; he practically leaps at Matt and embraces him in a tight hug, voicing a repeated chorus of thank you into his ear. After a few moments he sits back and looks upon Matt with concern.

“But what are you getting out of this,” he asks quietly. 

Matt’s smile resembles the toothy grin of a shark, “I will be legitimized; no more Matt the bastard. And once I am legitimized, I will be given the ruling claim over the Riverlands.” 

Isaac brain reflects back to the earlier news of the day. Erica is marrying Ethan Frey; she is marrying Ethan Frey so that there is Ironborn blood in the Riverlands. This blood claim will allow her take over the Twins and be used as a catalyst for a second coming of the Ironborns. 

He carefully catalogues the emotions in filtering across Matt’s face, “Earlier… when I punched father, he was going to hurt Erica.”

Matt looks considerably confused as to how this new topic has come to be, but motions for Isaac to continue. 

Isaac grimaces, “Father said that Erica was to marry Ethan Frey. He wants legitimate Ironborn blood in the Riverlands.” 

Matt seems to contemplate his words for a moment before shrugging, “Erica can do whatever she pleases, I am not one to provoke her ire, you know that; but at the end of the day the Targaryens will be the ones making the decisions, not our lovely father,” He takes another swig from the flask. “This is real Isaac, we are getting what we want; be happy,” he grips the back of his brother's neck and sends a warm smile towards him. 

Isaac takes the flask from Matt and pulls a long drink, warmth settles inside him. The day had been turbulent to say the least: Erica is to marry a Frey; He finally stood up to his father; and Matt made impressive advances in giving them the retribution they deserve. He looks out at the waters before him, they are still as deceptively calm as they were this morning, an anomaly that will not last. If this plan is going to work, they will need to not only survive the rough waters ahead, but make sure the Drowned God claims his victims; after all someone has to pay the Iron Price.

### THE TWINS

In the northern Riverlands one finds The Twins. It is a fortification at the Green Fork crossing of the Trident River, and home to the seat of House Frey. The Twins consists of two identical castles, each standing on a side of the river; between the two castles is the bridge that allows one to cross over. Unfortunately for those who traverse the Riverlands, The Twins is the only crossing point over the Green Fork for over hundreds of miles. Due to this, House Frey often charges absurdly high tolls for travelers, which varies on the depth of one’s pockets. 

Due to the strength of The Twins’ fortifications, and the wealth it incurs from its strategic location, House Frey is one of the most powerful houses within the Riverlands. One can thus see how ruling House Frey would be an influential position to hold, and as such it has been a seat often disputed between the vast numbers of Frey children. The most recent inter-house conflict took place at the wedding of Aiden Frey, then 7th in line for the seat. 

Prior to the wedding Aiden and his twin brother Ethan fabricated a plan to achieve power with Aiden’s bride to be Jennifer Rowan of the Reach. Jennifer had always possessed great ambitions and passed these onto the Frey twins. In secret Ethan began to sway his father’s soldiers and guards to their side. The plan was simple, kill anyone will a claim to the seat of House Frey. 

On the night of Aiden Frey’s wedding, Ethan had the guards barricade the doors to the Keep and gave the signal for them to begin the slaughter. The guards rushed forward and began to slice their way through not only their father and mother, but their 15 brothers and sisters. The pained screams and pleas of their family echoed off the walls of the Keep, accompanied by the joyous clapping and laughter of the bride. 

Once the deed was done and the Keep grew eerily quiet, Aiden Frey hugged his brother in happiness and then approached his bride. He carefully led her to the floor for their dance and the happy couple waltzed through the heavy pool of warm, slick blood; the smiles that graced their faces did not fade once during the remainder of the night. 

If one were to gaze upon the Keep now they would not be able to discern any evidence of the mass slaughter that took place, only weeks earlier. However, when one Ethan Frey finds himself seated within those walls, he can still hear the cries of his baby sisters pleading with him to help them—as the guards split open their throats and the gurgling blood distorts their voices. Ethan shakes his head and tries to wipe the memories from his mind. 

It is his fault that the voices and faces won’t he leave him alone, after all he was the once who led the assault against them. At night he finds himself tossing in his bed with visions dancing across his closed eyes, and during the day he hears their voices whispering and pleading with him as he walks through the halls. It is his fault. 

His brother however appears to not be hindered by the same guilt. Aiden and his new wife spend each day concocting a new scheme to grab more power; such is the reason Ethan currently finds himself seated in this awful place. 

When Aiden and Jennifer do arrive, they are just as carefree as normal, much to his chagrin. Ethan finds himself wishing that for at least a moment, the two of them would feel at least a tiny bit of remorse for the roles they played. 

“What are the two of you so giddy about,” he asks in a bitter voice.

Aiden pulls out a chair for Jennifer and then leans down to kiss her on the cheek, “We are planning a marvellous wedding,” he exclaims. 

Ethan is silent as he gazes upon the smiling features of his brother’s face. When the smile fails to fade, he feels a frown forming on his own.

“What,” he asks in a flat voice. 

Jennifer lets out a high-pitched chorus of laughter, Ethan can’t help but visualize shoving a tapestry into her mouth as a gag; it is a grating sound. 

Her lips form a warm smile, but Ethan notices that it fails to reach her eyes, “A wedding my darling brother-in law,” she states in a sweet voice. 

“More specifically your wedding,” Aiden adds. 

Ethan finds himself considering how many steps it would take to reach the doors and dive into the Green Fork, he is a strong swimmer, and he could ultimately make a decent getaway. 

He turns his attention to his brother, “Did the two of you forget that we just survived arguably the bloodiest wedding the history of Westeros, or are you both mad,” he spits out in a perturbed voice. 

Jennifer’s face wears a mask of faux concern as nods her head in sympathy, “I know that what you did was difficult, but it was for the good of your House,” Ethan finds himself contemplating how many rocks he would need to tie to Jennifer in order for her to drown at the bottom of the Trident. “The reason we have called you here today, is because we must ask another task of you,” she smiles encouragingly. 

Aiden clears his throat, “For the good of our House obviously,” his smile is much less convincing. 

“Ohh,” Ethan asks, “And whom exactly am I supposedly marrying for the…” he turns to looks at Jennifer, “Good… of our House,” he raises his eyebrows in question. 

Jennifer claps her hands together in glee, “A Greyjoy,” she exclaims excitedly. 

Oh good, he is going to be sent to bed with a Kraken amongst his sheets. His earlier idea of jumping into the Green Fork is looking more and more promising. Maybe he could run away to Sunspear, get a tan, dye his hair, claim a bastard name; no one should be able to distinguish the difference. 

His brother’s laughter shakes him from his thoughts.

“I can’t tell if your silence is good or bad brother, are you not excited for the opportunity to rebuild House Frey,” Aiden asks whilst chuckling. 

Ethan bounces his gaze between the two faces across from him, “Why a Greyjoy,” he asks in a suspicious tone. 

At his question Jennifer’s smile turns sharp, “If you marry a Greyjoy, Lord Quenton Greyjoy will be willing to provide the additionally bannermen we require to overthrow House Tully, and ultimately gain control over the Riverlands.”

There is it, good of the House his ass. “So, I am marrying a Greyjoy in order to increase our power and standing within the Riverlands,” Aiden nods his head in consent, “Then what exactly are the Ironborn getting out of this deal.” 

“Nothing important,” Jennifer adds quickly, Ethan notices the return of her sickly sweet smile; interesting.

Aiden quickly notices the look of apprehension on his brother’s face and tries to diffuse the situation, “We simply allow them a few settlements along the coast of the Bay, no harm will come to the Rivermen, and we will elevate House Frey to new standing.” 

Ethan nods his head absently, “Right, right… if two could excuse me, I require some air, the news has made me lightheaded it seems,” he smiles in hopes of not drawing suspicion. 

Jennifer takes his hand in hers and squeezes, “Of course brother, take as much time as you need,” the sharp edge has returned.  
Ethan glances at his brother and after receiving a nod, he quickly strides towards the doors and outside onto the bridge. He finds himself gripping the edge and starring down into the currents below. It is moving relatively quick today, he could honestly make good time before those two would come looking for him.

Before he can hoist his weight up and over, a throat clears behind him. Ethan turns to acknowledge the guard watching him with concern. “Errr… yes,” he asks.

The guard looks from the river to Ethan, “I’m sorry my lord, but are you all right” he asks in a cautious tone.

Ethan smiles, “Of course, I’m fine, just a little light headed is all,” the guard returns the tight-lipped smile. 

Ethan looks back down at the river; Damn, so close.


	5. We have a warmer end in mind for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Well... how am I doing so far?

 

### Dragonstone

The Stark family was set to arrive at Dragonstone the evening before the wedding. Tradition would normally have the family of the bride arriving at least a week before the wedding day, in order to help the host family prepare for the festivities; House Stark chose instead to send an envoy with gold, to cover their share of the cost. 

Weddings of this calibre in Westeros are often a delightfully extravagant affair, however the weather reflected the true mood of the festivities. The skies were overcast and opened to allow a torrential downpour to cover the Island and surrounding Bay in darkness. The weather was doing little to alleviate the sour mood of the approaching Stark family. 

Aboard their ship, one Derek Hale was beginning to grow stir crazy. The weather had forced him to remain inside the cabins alongside his anxious family. His father and mother had done little but argue in hushed tones, the topics of conversation varying little from one constant: The Targaryens. His sisters were no better. Since their impromptu conversation with their mother days before, Cora had stopped giving Laura the cold shoulder and now appeared to be attached to her at the hip; an action which would have a detrimental effect on the sanity of any nervous bride. 

In fact the only family member conveniently missing was his uncle. Derek scanned his eyes across the room, but failed to find any indication as to where his uncle has gone, or to what he was doing. How Peter even managed to make his escape without being seen is a testament to the how fixated his family members are on the upcoming wedding. Peter may be illusive on the best of days, but his father and mother never fail to notice when he has snuck off to engage in some secret adventure; and that is within the confines of a sprawling castle, not underneath the deck of a ship. 

Perhaps his uncle had indeed fled above deck out of desperation, the thought of him sitting up there drenched to the bone with a scowl on his face, was almost enough to draw up laughter from Derek’s chest. Perhaps he had dove overboard and planned on swimming to Dragonstone. He could kill a few dragons before the ship arrives and put an end to the wedding before it can begin. More likely, he decided to swim back to shore and walk home. He finds himself snickering at the mere thought of Peter walking anywhere. 

Following that thought, Derek is suddenly hit with the realization of Peter’s true location. He quietly begins to stand and slowly walk his way towards the cabin door. His parents are still whispering furiously and have their backs turned to wards him—perfect. His gaze flickers to his sisters and he sees that Laura is currently laying face down on her bed, with her face smashed into her pillow; Cora is rubbing her back out of sympathy. Before his luck turns, Derek quickly opens the cabin door, and darts out of the room and begins to stride his way towards the back of the ship’s hull. 

His family had naturally ridden from Winterfell to Duskendale, before boarding a ship for the remainder of their journey. Normally they would have left their horses at port, but his uncle had refused to leave his mount in the hands of Targaryen bannermen. Leave it to Peter to own quite arguably the flashiest creature in all of the Westeros, a Zorse. As he nears his intended location, the smell of fresh hay is what hits him first, then the vision of his uncle lying asleep across a number of bales.

As he approaches he notices that the bale upon where his uncles’ feet lay, is beginning to form a precarious shape; the horses having reached their necks far enough to retrieve a snack, no mind to the hay that resides inside their own stalls. Derek knocks Peter’s feet to the ground and gathers the remaining flakes of hay to split between the horses. When he turns back around, his uncle is looking upon him with displeasure. 

“Is there a reason you chose to interrupt my last moments of peace nephew,” Peter asks with annoyance bleeding through his tone. 

Derek attempts to seem nonchalant, but a smile manages to crack his mask. “Laura and Cora were making my head throb,” he states with a shrug. 

Peter nods his head in understanding, “And that is precisely why I left hours ago.” He sits up from the bale and cracks his neck and shoulders before turning to pet the nose of his Zorse. 

Derek snorts and shakes his head before sitting down next to his uncle, “I am beginning to think that only reason you threw a tantrum, was so that you would have an excuse to go hide somewhere once we boarded.” 

Peter places his hand over his heart and an expression of mock hurt falls upon his face, “Nephew you wound me,” after a moment laughter begins bubble out of him and smile slips across his face. “Don’t get me wrong, I am all for planning an escape route… but I was honestly concerned about leaving Ultio with those incompetent bastards from House Rykker.”

Derek looks upon the Zorse with contempt, “That has to be the least functional mount I have ever laid eyes upon. She bites or kicks everyone who approaches her, and she renders the ability to sneak up on an enemy null and void,” Ultio looks at Derek and pins her ears in response. 

Peter places a smug smirk across his face, “Nephew, if I am going after an enemy, I want them to know I am coming,” Derek raises an eyebrow in scepticism. Peter sighs and continues, “If they know I am coming to kill them, they have the opportunity to shit themselves and change their trousers before my arrival; that way I don’t have to smell their shit once I have gutted them.”

Derek has no hope of controlling the laughter that comes spilling out him. His uncle’s words may sound absurd to the ears of someone else, but he fails to hear a lie within them. 

Peter points at Derek’s own mount Camaro, “Besides, those are harsh words coming from the man who refuses to ride anything but his Destrier.” 

Derek winces at the words, but his uncle has a point. The elite class are the only ones who use Destrier mounts, and even then, they are far too valuable to be used in war or tournaments out of fear for them incurring injuries. Camaro is one of the few exceptions found throughout the realms. Derek turns to his uncle and raises both his eyebrows in challenge, “Says the man who bought said Destrier.”

Peter curls his upper lip in a snarl but nods his head absently. He is about to concede the victory to his nephew when a mischievous expression quickly flickers across his face, “Since we are on the topic of gifts, do tell, what exactly did you manage to scrounge up for your sister’s wedding present.”

Derek groans and buries his face in his hands; Peter on the other hand looks quite pleased with himself. 

When Derek finally replies his hands muffle his voice, “It’s stupid,” are the only words Peter can comprehend. 

After a minute, Peter leans over and knocks his shoulder in Derek’s, Derek finally raises his face from his hands, “I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours," Peter says playfully. 

Derek can’t help but huff in annoyance. He has been wondering what Peter would choose for weeks: did he go with an ornate present like jewellery, a dragon skull for a joke, or perhaps something sentimental like a family heirloom. He scowls at his uncle and sighs in defeat, “A circlet made from weirwood; she loves the godswood and I wanted to remind her of home.” 

Peter seems to consider Derek’s choice for a long moment, but he eventually shares a smile, “A wise choice. And here I was expecting you to give her something ridiculous like…” he waves his hand around in a vague manner, “Some dragon bones,” Derek can’t help but laugh at the irony. 

“Well… go on,” he motions at his uncle, “I told you mine, now you tell me yours.”

“A book on old Valyria, so she can become better acquainted with the tendencies of her new fire breathing in-laws,” he drawls, “Actually… not that far off from the dragon bones.”

Before Derek can reply, the sound of muffled voices makes its way to his ears. He suspects they have finally arrived in Dragonstone. Peter gives one more scratch to Ultio and then stands, motioning for Derek to follow him. As they walk he gives Derek some final words of wisdom. 

“Whatever you do, do not speak out of turn; your father is to do all the talking. Do not fall behind, do not linger, and do not get distracted. Stay beside me at all times and do not leave me until we arrive at our rooms. Do not drink anything offered to you but water and if something looks suspicious, I am telling you right now that you are probably right to assume so.” He glances over his shoulder to make sure Derek is indeed following and then shifts his gaze forward and continues to lead their way up top. “When one of them antagonizes you—and yes I am saying they will, do not take the bait. Grind your teeth to dust, dislocate your jaw, fracture your hand, do anything but retaliate.” He stops just before they reach the deck and he turns to face Derek, he searches his face for a moment until he finds something that pleases him, “Good boy. Time to go into the belly of the beast,” he claps Derek on the shoulder and then heads out onto the deck of the ship.

Derek closes his eyes and takes a long breath before following his uncle onto the deck. When they reach the surface he finds himself being pelted by the rain; apparently not even the Gods are interested in blessing this union. He quickly follows his uncle and joins the rest of his family upon the shore; it appears as though the remainder of the voyage has failed to calm their nerves as well as his own. 

His father’s face is cold and his brow is drawn in concentration as he stares at the nearby castle, one of his hands rest upon the hilt of Triskele; the ancient Valyrian steel sword of House Stark. His mother is the image of composure to the untrained eye, but he knows her tells. Because of the occasion she is dressed as a lady, and as such her own sword is not within reach; however her right hand flexes out of habit. Cora is anxiously fleeting her eyes between Laura, their parents and the castle, though she appears to have better control over her emotions than her sister. 

Laura is gnawing on her bottom lip, and seems to be having difficulty standing still, as she continues to shift her weight from one foot to the other. It is hard to tell if these are her anxieties, or those of her family bleeding into her emotions. He has not seen his sister this nervous since she was a child. He feels compelled to go comfort her, but his uncle said to not leave his side and he isn’t going to disobey such a warning when they have yet to even depart from the shore. 

Thankfully it appears as though the Targaryen welcoming party has arrived, though Derek is having a difficult time finding any indication of good spirits. Gerard looks as though a fowl smell has made its way under his nose; Alexander seems disinterested in the entire scene; Allison is staring at his father’s sword with narrowed eyes; Chris has an anxious smile upon his face; and Kate… well Kate is staring at him as if she wishes to swallow him whole. Derek bares his teeth at her in response. 

Gerard clears his throat and looks towards his father, “Welcome Lord Stark, it is a pleasure to host your family on this joyous occasion.” Derek has a difficult time finding any joy in his voice. 

His father’s face remains cold but he forces a tight smile in response, “Thank you Lord Targaryen, we are happy to be here at your… lovely home.” 

Derek can’t help but raise a brow at his father’s polite tone. He spares a quick glance at Dragonstone and sees nothing lovely about it. It is a hulking mass of twisted rock and sharp obsidian, spikes and dragons etched upon all visible surfaces, it is in a word, a monstrosity. 

Gerard saves his father from further forced conversation by losing his voice to a coughing fit, but indicates to his brother—no husband, to continue in his place.

Alexander smiles widely, “If you could please follow us to the castle, we would be delighted to show you to your rooms for your stay. And we would be most honoured if you would allow our servants to aid yours and unloading your ship.” 

Brandon chances a glance at Peter’s face and finds his gaze narrowed but no trace of worry across his features, He turns back to Alexander and nods. “Of course Lord Alexander,” he motions to the castle, “Shall we,” the tight smile makes a resurgence. 

Chris walks towards Laura and offers his arm to her, her face lights up and she immediately grabs hold, and they then begin to lead the way towards Dragonstone. His father and mother call Cora to their side and then begin following the Targaryens; Peter does not move. 

He waits for them to get out of earshot before he smacks Derek on the back of the head. 

“What in the seven hells was that for,” Derek growls.

Peter’s face can be only described as an expression of pure exasperation, “What did I say about taking the bait,” he hisses angrily. Derek winces, “I am only going to say this once so listen closely. She is dangerous. I don’t want you so much as fucking looking at her for the rest of stay. Understood,” he raises his brows at Derek in question. 

Derek nods his head, “Sorry uncle.” 

Peter shakes his head and grabs Derek’s arm pulling him forward after the others, “It wouldn’t be the first time a wolf bared its teeth at a dragon, and I am sure it won’t be the last.” 

The two of them quickly lengthen their strides and catch up with the others. Rule number two he thinks; don’t fall behind. 

Derek finds that Dragonstone isn’t any more inviting up close. The gates they enter through have a large dragon perched atop and looming down; it’s wings casting an enormous shadow upon them. As they continue to walk through the winding corridors and he sees the cold, uninviting interior, his opinion fails to change. 

Finally the party stops before a section of rooms: his mother and father take one; Cora and Laura another; Peter and himself each get their own. He flashes a large smile at their hosts and then enters his room, immediately locking the door behind him. 

As he surveys the room he discovers his effects have already been brought up, at least the servants are capable. He throws his heavy cloak haphazardly over a table and begins to undress to his small clothes, after all there is nothing better than a good rest after a long day a travel; especially given the trying day he has to endure in the morning. However as he approaches the bed, he finds movement outside the window catching his eye. He furrows his brow and moves to inspect the scene. 

Arriving in the harbour is a large ship, judging by the waving Baratheon House standard, it is one of the royal fleet. He leans on the ledge and watches for a few moments as people begin to spill out from below the deck. There is one figure however that catches his eye. They appear to be leaping about across the shore, with little regard for the hard rain pelting down upon them; given their actions he can only assume they are the court fool. He turns away from the window and finds himself chuckling and shaking his head as he goes to lie down in his bed. Not even the King of Westeros could miss the opportunity to witness the most ridiculous wedding that the realms will ever see. He pulls back the covers and lies down on stomach before pillowing his head on his arms; within moments sleep takes him. 

Derek is jarred from his sleep by a loud incessant knocking at his door; given the sun shining into his eyes, he assumes it to be morning. 

When the knocking only grows more insistent he groans and stumbles out of bed towards the door; when he opens it, he finds Peter on the other side. 

He takes in Derek’s state of undress and shakes his head before casting a disapproving look upon him, “Have you by chance seen Laura this morning,” he asks in a tight voice. 

Derek looks down at himself and then back to his uncle before giving a derisive snort, “Of course uncle, the reason I look like I just rolled out of bed is because Laura and I spent the entire night becoming acquainted with the Targaryen custom of fucking your sibling.” Derek is quite proud of the deadpan expression he maintains. 

Peter can’t help but give a laugh before concern once again clouds his features. “Get dressed, and do it quickly.” Derek raises a brow in question at the sudden commands, but nonetheless shuts the door and dresses in record time.

When he once again opens the door and heads into the hallway, he finds his uncle casually leaning against the opposing wall; the tapping of his fingers however, betrays his true emotions. 

Peter lifts his gaze to Derek and motions for him to follow. As they quickly make their way back through the winding corridors, Peter turns to Derek and addresses him in a hushed tone. “Laura is missing,” Derek’s face changes into an expression of alarm, “Don’t worry… well not yet anyway. She told Cora she needed air and went for a walk. At this point we are hoping she is simply having doubts and needed time to think.”

Derek finds himself nodding his head, “Laura is notoriously bad for disappearing off into the godswood, and I don’t see why she would suddenly behave any different today.” 

Peter stops for a moment and listens for any noises before continuing, “Your mother and father are keeping Lord Gerard, Alexander and Christophe busy with idle chatter, and Cora is diligently annoying Lady Allison and the Arryn boy.” Derek’s expression is one of confusion, “The Arryn boy,” he asks. 

Peter shakes his head, “I haven’t the slightest idea what that is about. However, what I do know is that while the rest of our family is running interference, we and a few others are going to find Laura.” 

“Aren’t we supposed to be encouraging her to change her mind on the marriage,” Derek whispers. 

“Yes, but we... she can’t bloody well just run away. There are certain customs that need to be followed…” he stutter steps before turning on his heel and ducking down a slim corridor, “Especially at this stage in the proceedings,” Peter hisses. 

As they turn down the next corridor, Derek sees that they are heading outside towards what he can only assume is the main courtyard, “Ah, here we are,” Peter exclaims.

As they draw outside into the light, Derek finds himself to be gazing upon a large circle of white cloaks; he understands the necessity to find his sister, but was involving the King’s Guard really necessary. As the guards part to allow them through, he sees two figures waiting in the middle. One of them is King John Baratheon, the other he can only assume is the Prince; and what a sight he is to behold. 

Derek’s eyes widen as he raises his brows in interest, and he can feel his lips part as he looks upon the man in front of him. They are nearly the same height but this man has wider shoulders, a tapered waist and hips he would love to press his fingers into. His skin resembles that of Laura’s porcelain dolls, marked only by a splattering of small moles across his face and neck that disappear down into the collar of his shirt; Derek wants chart each and every one of them. As his eyes flicker across his features he finds himself drawing in a short breath. His eyes are startling large, and the colour of golden honey; he finds them to be filled with nothing but warmth, and Gods his full lips are just begging to be bitten. 

Derek’s dazed expression does not go unnoticed and Peter finds himself barely managing to contain his laughter before clearing his throat. 

Upon turning his attention from his father to Derek, the young Prince’s mouth falls open and his eyes grow large. Derek can’t help but offer up a charming smile in return; the Gods appear to have chosen to grant him good favour on this day, and if that is the case, he is not going to waste it. A blush creeps up the Prince’s neck in response; he quickly looks at the ground and absently rubs a hand across the back of his head before sneaking another glance. 

An easy smile slips onto Peter’s face, “Your Grace, may I present to you, my nephew Derek,” Derek is preparing to bow, when the King leans forward and clasps his hand in a warm handshake. He looks at his uncle with distraught eyes. 

When he glances back at the King he seems to be completely at ease. The King takes in the worry on Derek’s face and can’t help but chuckle, “Don’t worry about any of the formalities son. I’m here for a wedding, not posturing,” he says with a warm smile. 

The King then turns to his son expecting to introduce him, however he finds Stiles diligently staring at the ground and sneaking casual glances at Derek out of the corner of his eye. The King shakes his head, “Please forgive my son for his lack of manners; it is his first time out of King’s Landing.” 

“It wouldn’t be the first time the Stark features rendered someone speechless your Grace,” Peter answers smugly. 

At his uncle’s words, the Prince releases a squawk of indignation; Derek feels the tips of his ears grow hot and directs his gaze towards the ground in order to hide his mounting embarrassment. 

Peter clucks his tongue and motions between Derek and Stiles, “Adorably awkward aren’t they, I imagine if my nephew had tried to introduce himself, he wouldn’t have been able to vocalize more than a pup’s growl.” The rocks by his feet seem to grow more interesting by the second. 

The king breaks out into a boisterous laugh, “I usually can’t get Stiles to shut up, and now I find him doing an impressive impersonation of a fish.” Derek hazards a quick glance at the Prince and finds that he is indeed alternating between opening his mouth sinfully wide and then slamming it shut again; he feels him self grow hot under his collar. 

The King looks between Derek and Stiles before raising a brow at Peter “Well we aren’t going to find your niece by standing around, we should probably pair up and get searching. Derek and Stiles can head towards Aegon’s Garden; Peter, you shall join myself and Ser Finstock in searching the courtyards.” He motions towards the remaining white cloaks, “The rest of you can spread out and make yourselves useful.” 

“Wonderful suggestions your Grace,” Peter replies. 

As Peter begins to walk past him, he leans in and whispers into his ear, “Have fun nephew, but do try to keep your hands above his clothes,” and with a wink he hurries away after the King and his guard. 

The white cloaks then begin to disperse in all directions, and after a few moments Derek finds himself standing alone with the Prince. The Prince is looking at him expectantly, in response Derek motions towards the garden and starts walking, the Prince soon falling into even strides beside him.

The silence between the two of them is deafening. Derek decides to fall onto the sword and be the one to break it. “How did the little fawn find himself so far from home,” he asks innocently. 

The Prince grabs Derek’s arm and halts their progress. Derek looks down at the hand and raises a brow in question. He finds that the Prince is staring at him with huge eyes and a tight frown. “I am not a little fawn, I am a stag. A stag that is the future King of Westeros, a stag that you would do well to respect,” a haughty smirk on his face. 

Derek can’t help but appreciate the pink colour that has filled his cheeks; indignation looks good on him. Derek schools his face into a mask of faux concern, “My mistake little princeling, but if you continue to look upon me with your eyes wide like a startled doe, I am going to have a difficult time altering my opinion.” 

The Prince plants both of his hands on Derek’s chest and shoves him away in anger. Derek can’t help but laugh at the outburst as he regains his balance. As the prince stomps past him, he makes sure to knock his shoulder into his own. Despite the blossoming pain, Derek fails to keep a large smile from appearing on his face. 

Derek turns and leisurely follows after the Prince. The silence returns but the Prince continues to throw a number of glares over his shoulder in Derek’s direction. He finds the longer he ignores the taunts, the more aggravated the Prince grows.

Finally the Prince huffs and throws his arms up into the air, “This is useless. Can’t you just save us the effort and sniff her out.” 

Derek begins to circle the Prince and smiles a predatory grin, “I am sorry little stag, but you seem to have me confused with one those Clegane mutts. I don’t simply sniff out my prey…” he then closes the distance between them until he is standing pressed directly against Stiles’ back, “I hunt it down,” he whispers into the Prince’s ear. 

Derek relishes in the sharp intake of breath that comes from Stiles in response. After a few glorious moments he eventually forces himself to step back and continues to walk along their course; he mourns the loss of heat. 

Soon enough he hears the Prince begin to scramble after him; it appears that he is more responsive than originally thought. 

When the Prince regains his position next to him, he turns to Derek and sneers at him, “I regret to inform you that you are the one who is confused. It does not matter if a hound or a wolf approaches a stag, either one will find themselves gored in a matter of minutes,” he finishes smugly. 

Derek spares a glance at Stiles’ throat and sees his pulse is jumping—his false bravado is adorable. Derek is careful to maintain his pace but minutely shortens his strides until the Prince begins to draw away from him. “I have considered your words my Lord, but what you have failed to take into consideration is that a wolf will never attack from the front.” Derek then proceeds to knock Stiles’ long legs out from under him and watches as the Prince falls flat on his ass. “A wolf,” he emphasizes, “Will always take out the legs, so its prey can’t run away.”

Stiles face is an expression of pure ire when he looks up at Derek; however after a minute he releases a long breath and extends his right arm towards Derek in a silent request for assistance. 

Derek knows exactly what is coming, but he refuses to let the Prince know. Instead he keeps his face blank and grasps his hand in apology. In a split second Derek feels his world shift and can’t help but smile as he suddenly finds himself lying on his back with the Prince straddling his thighs. 

The Prince has his hands fisted in Derek’s shirt and is looking down upon him with a smug grin, “You took out my legs, yet you still find yourself at the receiving end of my antlers,” he raises a brow in challenge. 

Derek carefully places his hands upon Stiles thighs and lightly slides them up to rest on his hips; he gives his fingers an experimental squeeze before looking at the Prince’s face. Derek finds wide dark eyes staring back at him in awe, and spit slicked lips beckoning him forward. “You speak as though it was not my intention, to have the most beautiful creature in Westeros fall into my lap,” he carefully begins to sit up in hopes of not spooking the young Prince. 

Stiles appears to have no intention of going anywhere. He slides his hands up Derek’s chest and wraps them around his neck, tangling his fingers in the hairs at his nape. “You could have just saved yourself the effort and kissed me,” Stiles says quietly. 

Derek makes a low sound of want as he quickly closes the gap and slants his mouth over Stiles’. He brings his hands up to wrap around him and pulls the Prince close against his body. He moans against Stiles’ mouth and can feel him arching up into his hard grip. Despite the urge he has to simply take, he vows to keeps the kiss within the realms of chaste and slowly pulls away. Stiles responds with a whine and tries to chase after Derek’s mouth. 

In order to avoid the temptation, Derek buries his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck and tries to regain his composure. If he happens to mark the Prince by grazing his rough stubble across the exposed skin, he isn’t going to be voicing any complaints. 

Stiles moves his hands up to card through Derek’s hair and looks off into the distance with a glazed expression, “That was…” Derek can’t help but feel smug knowing the Prince is also struggling to find his breath, “That was… wildfire,” he says with a confused tone. 

Derek lifts his head and looks at Stiles face in confusion, “That was wildfire,” he repeats.

Stiles flies backwards off of Derek’s lap and scrambles to stand whilst smacking Derek on the shoulder, “Wildfire,” he yells and points towards the center of the garden. 

Derek feels his blood run cold and quickly takes Stiles’ offered hand. The two of them break out into a sprint and run towards the center of the garden. When they arrive, the sight nearly brings him to his knees.

In the center of the garden is a large ring of wildfire burning a sickly green; even from a distance he can feel the heat on his face. But it is what lies at the center of the ring that leaves him distraught. A lone crumpled figure is visible from where he stands, they appear to be wearing an elaborate light grey dress and their abdomen is stained red with blood; Laura. He launches himself forward without thinking and runs towards her in desperation. 

Before he can get far, a sudden weight is on his back, and causing his knees to give out and he to fall to the ground. “Stop,” the Prince screams in fear, “That’s wildfire you stupid wolf. It would burn you alive before you could even hope of reaching her.” Derek doesn’t care, that is his sister trapped inside the ring, and he has to do something. He struggles in Stiles’ grip but fails to buck him from his back. 

Stiles is screaming at the top of his lungs for his father, and after a few agonizing minutes the King, Peter and Ser Finstock, as well as 5 white cloaks come bursting onto the scene. Peter stares at the fire in fear before schooling his face into a hard look. He runs towards Derek and starts pulling on his heavy cloak, “Give me your cloak,” he yells before turning to look at Laura’s prone figure, “Quickly!”

Stiles aids Peter in removing Derek’s cloak and he wraps it around his front in order to help provide some level of cover from the blistering flames. Peter shares a quick glance with Derek before running towards the ring of wildfire and into the middle where Laura lies; Derek can’t bring himself to watch. 

He can hear Peter’s pained screams, and he knows the fire is eating through the cloaks. He can’t lose two family members today. He doesn’t realize he is trembling until Stiles’ tightly grips his shoulder and helps ground him. Derek hears the sound of clinking armour as the guards rush past them, and he steels himself to hazard a glance. He takes a deep breath and looks up to see that both Laura and Peter are outside of the circle, however did they not escape unscathed. 

His uncle had covered her with Derek’s cloak in order to protect her from the flames, and as a result part of his jaw, neck and newly exposed chest are blistered, raw, and bleeding profusely; Derek sees what he believes to be bone. Peter is writhing on the ground in agony and sobs are wracking his entire body. Derek begins to crawl his way over; his legs are shaking too much to run. 

The King grabs Ser Finstock by his breastplate and yanks him within an inch of his face, “You are going to round up the rest of your men and you are going to get them to escort my personal healer, the remainder of the Stark family and the Targaryens here immediately.” He flickers his gaze towards Stiles and Derek hovering over the two injured Starks, before once again glaring at Finstock. “And once you have done that, have the servants load the ships immediately, both will heading towards King’s Landing.” He shoves Ser Finstock away from him and points towards the castle, “Go,” he commands. 

He then turns his attention to the remaining five white cloaks, “You five will remain here and for the love of the Gods keep your eyes open." Ser Finstock nods his head in understanding before turning around and running towards the castle, “Greenberg you useless fuck, today is the day your balls drop and you make me proud. Now come with me,” his retreating form yells out. 

The King slowly begins to walk toward Laura and bends down to check for a pulse; He looks up at Derek and Stiles. “Well… she is alive.” He turns to examine the wound across her abdomen and finds three deep slashes, “But this needs immediate attention, before she loses more blood, or an infection takes hold.” 

Stiles nods his head and moves from Derek’s side over to Laura. He removes his own light cloak and places it over Laura’s abdomen and applies much needed pressure, he shares a shaky smile with his father. 

Derek has removed his shirt and is attempting to use it to staunch the blood flow from his uncle’s burns. He may be a man of ten and eight, but at this moment he feels as useful as a child. His sister lies beside him unmoving and on the brink of death. His uncle is currently sobbing and bleeding in his arms. Derek feels the moisture collecting in his eyes, but is unable to hold back the tears. The wetness falls from his face and adds to the collection on his uncle’s own. 

A heavy silence hangs over the garden and remains unbroken until the sound of an argument fills the air. Brandon and Talia are the first two bodies to come tearing into the garden, and immediately run to their fallen family members; Cora follows not long after, her face already red from crying. 

Talia is attempting to take over Laura’s care from Stiles, but her hands are shaking too hard for her to get a firm grip on the blood soaked cloak. Brandon places his hand on top of her own and presses them down on top of Laura; Stiles nods and quickly rises to move beside his father. Cora is hugging Derek and sobbing into his shoulder, as his own silent tears continue to fall.

Moments later the remaining white cloaks come marching into garden center; the Targaryens firmly enclosed within their formation. Upon seeing the scene before him, Christophe stumbles and falls to his knees. He attempts to continue forward to see Laura, but the white cloaks prohibit his advance. 

Brandon looks up from his position beside his wife and he regards Gerard with a fierce stare. He rises from a kneel and runs towards the elder Targaryen, and tackles him to the ground; he manages to land 4 blows to his face before the white cloaks haul him off and separate the two of them. 

“What did you do to my daughter, you fucking bastard," he roars in anger. Despite the three men restraining him, he continues to fight their hold. 

Gerard raises his hands in surrender but wears a sharp grin of bloody teeth, “I was with you all day my Lord Stark, there is no way I could have had anything to do with this." 

Derek glances up from his uncle’s pained face to examine the newly arrived Targaryens. Despite Gerard’s sharp smile, the rest of the Targaryens look as surprised as he had been. Chris is sobbing on his knees whilst his mother consoles him and Allison is hiding her face in her mother’s shoulder. Kate simply looks furious; an emotion Derek doubts is from compassion towards his family. He narrows his eyes and feels anger flare in his chest. 

He adjusts his uncle and moves him into Cora’s lap before rising and advancing on the Targaryens. He looks at Kate and snarls, “What did you do,” he demands. 

She looks at Derek with mock hurt upon her face, “Me? Why would I want to hurt Laura, she is like a sister to me.”

Derek lunges forward and dodges the white cloaks in his way before wrapping his hand around her throat. “What did you do,” he repeats through barred teeth. 

Kate clutches at Derek’s forearm as he begins to cut off her air, but the expression of mock hurt fails to fall from her face. He can hear Stiles and the King yelling for him to release her, but he refuses to comply. This woman is the reason his uncle is now disfigured, and his sister may die; she does not deserve compassion. 

He tightens his grip and finally her mask begins the crack. She realizes that Derek has seen through her façade, and slowly a wicked grin begins to pull at the corners of her mouth. Derek snarls and is about to snap her neck when he receives a blow to the head. He gasps and releases Kate, who stumbles backwards into her father. Derek falls to his knees and looks up to see a short pudgy white cloak looking down at him. 

He falls forward onto his hands and his vision starts to blur. “Seven hells Greenberg, I said restrain him, not brain him you fucking imbecile,” are the last words he hears before he collapses and blacks out.


	6. Weddings have become more perilous than battles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Thank you guys for being patient, unfortunately I had some finals to massacre before I could get around to this
> 
> II. Don't say I never gave you fluff before I started killing people, so prepare yourselves for the very bumpy road ahead, as things are almost set up for it to all start going to hell. 
> 
> III. I am planning on making cover art for this, so it will be posted back on chapter 1 (Kings have no friends, only Subjects and Enemies) once it is finished. 
> 
> IV. Also I am relatively curious as to if anyone has figured out the theme with the chapter titles yet.

 

### KING’S LANDING

When Derek begins to wake, the first sensation he feels is one of intense heat and then a dull throbbing in his head. He releases a loud groan and attempts to get his bearings. 

The last thing he remembered was being in the garden with Stiles— no that isn’t right. His uncle was crying, why would Peter be crying. Laura was getting married—Laura. At this realization Derek attempts to jackknife out of bed, throbbing head be damned. 

A feeling of déjà vu hits Derek when a heavy pressure is landing on his back and shoving him face first into a mound of pillows. “Settle the fuck down you crazy wolf,” the weight yells at him. 

Derek flails his form until he is able to get enough leverage to tilt his head, “Stiles,” he asks tentatively. 

“I certainly hope you wouldn’t be in bed with anyone else,” Stiles replies sharply. 

Derek manages to reach a hand back and smacks Stiles on his side, “I shouldn’t be in bed with you in the first place. Now stop trying to suffocate me and let me up.”

Stiles releases an unimpressed huff, “Hmm let me think about that. Are you going to try and run away the second I stop crushing you,“ he asks. 

Derek draws his lips into a tight line and mentally sighs, “No Stiles I am not going to run away, as long as you tell me what the fuck is going on.” 

Stiles takes a moment to mull over Derek’s words but cautiously decreases the pressure and leans his weight back to rest against the headboard. Derek slowly rises to hands and knees before turning his head to grin at Stiles; the Prince’s complexion turns ruddy in response.

Derek takes a deep breath and shakes his head in an attempt to clear the cobwebs from his mind. After a few minutes he sits back against the headboard next to Stiles. Their bodies are touching shoulder to hip and the heat is a welcomed comfort. 

Stiles is wringing his hands nervously and sneaking brief glances at Derek’s face. “So… Laura is alive but she isn’t conscious. The healers are saying her body has undergone a great amount of stress and needs time to repair the damage. 

Derek remains silent and his gaze is directed at his hands, but the concern can be plainly seen across his features. Stiles looks from Derek’s face to his hands before slowly reaching over and linking their fingers together. Derek gives a thankful squeeze in response. 

“And Peter,” Derek asks quietly. 

Stiles shakes his head, “The burns are bad, but you already knew that. He is awake and I am told he is healing… but he has been quiet, detached—I don’t know.” 

Stiles gives Derek’s hand another squeeze and an accompanying small smile. “Father has decided that Kate will need to stand trial. The Hand will be one judge; he sent a letter to both Lord Rafael Arryn and Prince Doran Martell to report to King’s Landing, in order to fill the other two positions. 

Derek furrows his brow in confusion, “An Arryn and a Martell,” he asks slowly. 

Stiles shrugs and wiggles closer to Derek, “Something about needing completely unbiased opinions. Personally I’d just lop off her head and be done with it.” 

Derek snorts in response, “I’d say something about your lacking knowledge in regards to the code of laws, but then again I was prepared to snap her neck myself.” 

Stiles gets a mischievous smirk on his face before swinging his weight over Derek and straddling his lap. “This may be completely inappropriate,” he says as he starts unlacing Derek’s shirt, “But you look awfully attractive when you are all shirtless and growling.” 

Derek gives the Prince a charming smile in response. The wedding was such a disaster it never even came to pass, his father is attempting to place charges on Kate Targaryen in court, Laura is comatose, and Peter is suffering from physical and mental scars; yet he can’t find a reason to frown when those golden eyes are shining back at him. He may be condemning himself to a fate in the seventh hell, but as he leans forward to capture the Prince’s lips, he finds himself complacent with his fate. 

Despite Derek’s best efforts to keep the kiss chaste, the Prince is doing his best to weaken his resolve. A quick tongue running along his and sharp bites to his lips are doing little to aid Derek in maintaining his composure, and he soon finds his hands embracing Stile’s face and dragging him closer. The kiss is a perfect balance of harsh and tender; Derek finds himself wanting more.

It isn’t until the Prince’s long fingers begin to unlace his breeches that Derek is suddenly hit with a cold snap of reality. The haze of lust clears from his mind and he quickly grabs the Prince’s hands in hopes of prohibiting further action. 

Derek takes pride in seeing the wrecked expression on Stiles’ face, but that does little to ameliorate their current predicate. He waits a few moments for his breathing to stabilize before addressing the Prince. “Am I correct in assuming there are armed guards outside your door,” he asks in a hushed voice. 

Stiles narrows his eyes, “There are always guards outside my door, why would it matter if—oh,” he finishes lamely. 

Derek tries to remain serious but a smile cracks through his mask, “If it is all the same to you, I’d rather not be sent to the Wall for the rest of my life, simply because I couldn’t keep my hands off of the future King’s cock.” 

Stile winces, “Technically it was my hands that were going to be on yours,” he shrugs innocently, “Just saying.” 

Derek clenches his jaw and huffs out of exasperation before releasing Stiles’ hands, “I don’t think your father, the King of Westeros in case you have forgotten, will be concerned with the technicalities. I imagine he will be more interested in the fact the guards pulled me from your bed and put me in chains.” 

Stiles absently rubs a hand along the back of his neck, “Ah, I see the problem,” he says quietly.

He then gives an excited jerk and waves his hands in front of Derek’s face, “New plan, amazing plan—the best plan really,” he exclaims whilst nodding his head. Derek raises a brow in question. 

“You,” he says whilst smacking Derek on the chest, “Need to man up and ask my father for a betrothal. We will have a legitimate excuse to be alone, and let’s face it, I am not exactly opposed to you showering me in gifts worthy of my grandeur.” 

At this Derek’s other brow chooses to join the previous one in an attempt to reach his hairline. “You are correct in assuming we would be able to spend more time getting to know one another, but I imagine it would still take quite a bit of work to ditch the guards.” 

Stiles waves his hands in dismissal, “I have been sneaking around King’s Landing behind their backs for years.” 

Derek nods his head absently and leans forward to place another kiss on the Prince’s lips. Despite the whine Stile’s releases he draws back and brings their foreheads together. 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, “First we shall go visit my sister and uncle, and then we will go approach your father.” 

Stiles’ smile is blinding and he starts peppering kisses along Derek’s jaw.

“Perfect.”

### SUNSPEAR

At the Southern most point of Westeros one finds the realm of Dorne. Unlike the rest of the realms, Dorne is a dry and arid climate, and the only desert in all of Westeros. Bordered by the Stormlands and the Reach, Dorne is cut off from its neighbours by the towering Red Mountains. Because of the mountainous terrain, limited fresh water springs, and blistering heat, Dornishmen prefer to live in numerous small settlements across the realm, as oppose to the large cities found elsewhere. Due to this geography and its unique culture, the Dornishmen have long practice the governance methodology of isolationism. Despite the desire of the Martell family to remain removed from the messy politics of Westeros’ ruling houses, they have remained loyal to the Baratheon Kings. 

Consequently, it is this allegiance that has allowed them to continue their isolationist tendencies. As long as the Martells remain loyal to the crown, and continue their strenuous peace with The Reach, the Baratheons are content to leave them be. The Martell family resides in Sunspear, an ancient settlement located on the far southeastern coast of Westeros, and directly beside the sea. Sunspear is a large city that is protected by three walls ringing the city, a precaution in the face of a siege. The city surrounding the citadel is conglomeration of winding side streets, busy bazaars and mud brick housing. Sunspear is a unique settlement within Dorne, and is only able to sustain its population because of its abundant springs. 

The Citadel itself is a sight to behold: the main structure is made of sandstone, the floors are all polished marble, and each of the towers has been capped with gold. The architecture is done within a manner that allows for proper airflow to limit the uncomfortable heat: High vaulted ceilings, open courtyards and darkly coloured glass windows. Citizens of Westeros often wonder why the Dornishmen are so content to remain within their own realm and limit their ties outside; however once one has visited the capital, the reasoning becomes quite apparent. 

On this morning one Dornish Prince is happily going against the isolationist customs of his people, and can instead be found in his bed with a man from the Westerlands. Said Prince can be identified as Danny Martell, the notoriously charming yet manipulative heir to Sunspear. He is currently sprawled out across his bed; a litany of bruises and bite marks covering his exposed skin. He is slowly beginning to rouse from his sleep, but makes no effort to get up. He may have responsibilities to take care of, but at this moment he was not remotely interested in attempting any of them, instead he chose to turn over and acknowledge the sleeping form next to him. 

The man beside him was a breathtaking sight of sun kissed skin, golden hair and green eyes— eyes that were currently blind to the world around them. Danny couldn’t help but smile after taking in the pattern of bruises marking his shoulder. He carefully reaches over to skim his fingers over the mottled skin before leaning forward to place a gentle kiss over each mark. 

By the third kiss, the figure below him began to stir. “You can get up anytime you know,” Danny says, his breath ghosting over the man’s neck. The man grunted and lazily stretched out his form before slowly turning his body to face Danny. 

“Some lion you are, lazier than a house cat,” Danny said with mock insult in his tone. The comment earned him swat to his ribs, but there was no heat behind the action. “Lord Jackson Lannister, King of the lions and shadowcats, Lord of the seven kittens and protector of the crème,” Danny says in a mocking tone. 

Jackson looks up at him with a distinctly unimpressed face, “I don’t understand how everyone likes you. You can be just as much of a prick as I am.”

Danny gives Jackson a blinding smile in response, “Oh I can think of many reasons why everyone likes me, in fact some of them are probably quite similar to why you like me.” Jackson raises a brow in scepticism.

“If you are trying to make me jealous, I regret to inform you that it isn’t going to work,” Jackson says as he trails a hand up Danny’s stomach. Danny can’t help but roll his eyes and swat Jackson’s hand away. 

“Humour me Jackson,” Danny says with a dry tone. 

Jackson smirks and leans forward, beginning to trails kisses up Danny’s chest and throat, “Half the people you take to bed only want to win your political favour; and the other half just want to fuck the notorious Dornish prince.” He raises his gaze to meet Danny’s eyes, “I on the other hand, find myself in your bed because you are my best friend and I will always be by your side.” 

Danny fights to contain his smile but fails to in light of the words spoken. “Not bad… a little narcissistic, but not bad.” 

“Please you love me,” Jackson states as he plants a quick kiss on Danny’s lips. 

Danny raises his right hand and grips Jackson’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing him to hold his gaze. “The question will never be if I love you, the question will always be if you truly love me,” he raises his brows in question. 

Jackson face is an expression of pure confusion, “Do you have a twin brother I don’t know about,” he asks sarcastically. 

Danny sighs and rises from the bed, heading towards a desk littered in letters. He quickly sifts through them until he finds one with the Baratheon seal and then proceeds to head back towards the bed and tosses it at Jackson. 

Danny had received this letter late last night from the Baratheon Prince himself. They aren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination but their communications do serve a purpose; ultimately it is a correspondence he can’t fail to feed. 

Jackson stares at Danny expectantly whom releases a frustrated sigh and motions towards the letter. Jackson hesitantly picks up the letter and begins to read, understanding slowly replacing the confusion on his face. 

When he finishes reading, Jackson quickly taps his fingers on his leg before meeting Danny’s waiting gaze, “Kate Targaryen is to face trial in King’s Landing… there is no way she is going to willingly present herself.” 

Danny shakes his head and sits down on the bed next to Jackson. “Not a chance. Which means that the royal army will have to march on the Crownlands and drag her out.” 

Jackson gives a derisive snort, “Which means the Targaryens are going to fight tooth and nail to prevent it.”

Danny stares at his hands and nods absently, “Which means that war will be coming to Westeros, and our friendship will be at an impasse.” Jackson slowly extends his hand and takes Danny’s in his own. “You are going to have to choose a side you know,” Danny finishes quietly. 

Everyone knows that whilst the realms may currently be united in peace, the first sign of conflict would see a number of Houses vying for more power. If this slight at the hands of the Targaryens truly leads to war, each House will need to pledge allegiance to the Crown or the Targaryens; He has been doing the math and unfortunately some of his friends are not where they should appear to be. 

Jackson gives a small smile in response, “I am a Lannister, and thus I already have a side. Or did you happen to forget that my uncle is Hand of the King,” he asks dryly. 

Danny returns the smile, “Given how often you bring it up, I don’t think anyone in the nine realms could forget it.” Jackson laughs and leans forward to hook his hand around Danny’s neck to bring him into a kiss. 

Danny does not pull away but he quickly raises a hand to cover Jackson’s mouth. “If you side with me, with the Crown, you will be willingly abandoning Lydia… I know the two of you are close.”

Danny gives Jackson a moment to think over the words before he slowly lowers his hand from Jackson’s mouth. “Lydia Tyrell is on the wrong side of the conflict. Besides if the realms are going to war, I need a shining spear by my side, not a trampled flower,” Jackson says whilst rubbing his free hand across a bite mark on Danny’s thigh. 

Danny flickers his gaze between Jackson’s hand and his face, “Just like that you are willing to abandon your friend,” he asks slowly. 

Jackson shakes his head, “No, just like that I am willing to pledge my allegiance to the Crown and to my best friend.” Jackson then closes the distance between the two of them and drags Danny into a harsh kiss. Danny can’t help but arch into the possessive hands on neck and leg, bringing his own up to cup Jackson’s face. 

“I will always choose you,” Jackson says forcefully against Danny’s mouth. Danny bites down on Jackson’s lower lip in response.

The metallic taste of blood meets his tongue before he is once again returning the kiss and trailing one of his hands down towards Jackson’s hardening cock. “That is all I needed to hear,” Danny says as he sucks fresh bruises along Jackson’s jaw and shoves him sprawling back down onto the bed. 

The room already carries the smell of sex and sweat, but if they are going to be parted so soon, they might as well make the most of their remaining time together. If he and Jackson are correct in their assumptions, Jackson will be needed back at Casterly Rock in order for the Lannister War Council to convene. The thought of Jackson leading his own column on the front lines of a battlefield has his stomach twisting. 

Danny knows his father will side with the Baratheons, if or when he would enter a war are the unknown variables. Given how his parents try to shelter him, he has no doubt that they would disallow him to join up within the military ranks; he for all intents and purposes is safe, Jackson is another matter. He has done all he can to ensure his friend will remain on the right side, ensuring he survives the war is another matter entirely; one not even he is sure he can pull off.

### HIGHGARDEN

In contrast to Dorne, the Reach is not only the most fertile, but also the most densely populated region of Westeros. Second only to the North in sheer size, the Reach is bordered by the Westerlands, the Riverlands, the Crownlands, the Stormlands and Dorne. Because of its multitude of shared borders, the Reach engages in numerous trade ventures and is thus second in wealth only to the Westerlands. 

House Tyrell maintains control over the Reach by governing from their fortress in Highgarden. Highgarden is an enormous tiered-walled complex that truly showcases the wealth of the Tyrell family. Tyrell family has always been concerned with their appearance and thus they spare no expense at maintaining the aesthetic nature of Highgarden. The vast majority of the construction is done from polished white stone, and there is an abundance of well-maintained groves, fountains and courtyards as far as the eye can see. In honour of the Tyrell sigil, golden roses are extremely popular and grace the entirety of the fortress. 

Consequently, the Tyrells own preoccupation with their image as a powerful house has led to a growing dissatisfaction in their rule. Mace Tyrell is willing to let his bannermen instigate conflicts with the Dornishmen and as such seeds of dissonance are sprouting within the realm. Nonetheless the Tyrell’s have refused to acknowledge that they could ever lose their seat and continue to ignore the problems surrounding them. 

Consequently, given the news of the failed Targaryen/Stark wedding, the Tyrells find themselves scrambling. Their house has always held a tentative alliance with the Targaryens and should this conflict escalate, they will be required to not only supply bannermen but rations as well. As such one Lydia Tyrell was currently watching her older sister Meredith eavesdrop outside of the chamber where the Tyrell War Council was being convened. 

Lydia and Meredith may be sisters but the two of them have little in common. Lydia’s head of strawberry blonde hair and striking beauty had led to her acquiring many admirers across the realms, and her being referred to as Highgarden’s Golden Rose. In contrast, her sister wore her hair short in the style of men and shied away from the social scene that Lydia was so fond of. However, both sisters were equally incredibly smart and capable. 

It is because of this that Lydia couldn’t help but stare at her sister and shake her head of curls in embarrassment. For being so intelligent, her sister’s attempts at eavesdropping discreetly were pathetic at best. She fails to see why her sister does nothing but wander the halls of Highgarden hoping to catch snippets of information; the information is generally useless without the context.

Lydia gives an annoyed huff, gathers her skirts and then stomps over to where her sister stands guiltily outside of the chamber door. “If you want to listen in so badly, why don’t you just ask to sit in on the meetings,” Lydia asks in a clipped tone. 

Meredith gives a flinch at the unexpected voice, “You know I already asked them, don’t even start with me," she replies coldly. 

Lydia sighs, “They tell me no all the time, and you know what I do,” she raises her brows expectantly. 

Meredith stares at Lydia with a blank expression, “Annoy them until they say yes,” she asks in a deadpan voice. 

Lydia smiles sweetly, “No I charm them until they say yes. Let’s examine the empirical evidence shall we,” she then opens up her hand to tick off her fingers. “There was the time they tried to tell me I couldn’t visit Lady Allison; when they attempted to prevent me from vacationing on the Summer Islands; Their misguided attempt to try and secure a betrothal to Lord Peter Stark; most notably when they needed to be persuaded towards a union between myself and Lord Jackson Lannister.” She folds her fingers over and examines her nails, “Do you require more evidence,” she asks innocently.

Meredith shakes her head, “Allison came to visit you; you had to take me with you to Summer Islands; Peter Stark had no interest in marrying a little girl; and if you would actually pay attention to half the things being whispered around here, you would know that you and Lord Jackson are not going to happen.”

At that Lydia’s attention snaps to her sister and she narrows her eyes, “What do you mean, Jackson and I aren’t going to happen,” she spits out rudely. 

Meredith shifts her gaze back to the door in order to avoid her sister’s angry expression. “Someone tried to kill Laura Stark at her own wedding. Judging by what I can make out, the Targaryens are suspected to be behind it.” 

Lydia may prefer to limit her involvement in politics, to her own standing within the realm, but even she can presume the events that will unfold. If the Targaryens go to war with the Crown, her and Jackson will be on opposite sides of the conflict.

Lydia looks at Meredith with a worried expression, “But if Jackson and I were to get married then House Lannister and House Tyrell would have an alliance. It would still work,” she says with a tone of desperation. 

Meredith looks at her sister in sympathy, “Lyds… we both know father and mother would never allow to it. If we side with the Lannisters, then we side with the Florents.” 

Lydia looks upon her sister with ire, “No. You heard wrong. They promised me that I would marry Jackson,” she spits out maliciously. 

Meredith reaches out to embrace her sister but Lydia shrugs her off and storms out towards her favourite grove. On the way she maintains her composure, after all no one can see her at anything less than her best. She smiles at the servants, walks with her head high and shoulders back, and refuses to let any tears fall. 

When she reaches a secluded area of the grove she closes her eyes and lets out a loud scream of anguish and frustration. Eventually the scream tapers off and she collapses down upon the grass; she finally allows her tears to fall and sobs begin to shake her body. 

She wasn’t lying, her parents had promised her. They said that Jackson would be a wonderful match, a union between the two wealthiest Houses in Westeros. She was supposed to have her golden knight. She was supposed to have her dream wedding. She was supposed to get everything she wanted.

### DRAGONSTONE

The mood in Dragonstone was not much better. The assassination plan had been for Allison to slip the poison into the King’s wine at the feast following the wedding. Kate had destroyed any possibility of that occurring. 

Kate had seen her brother’s bride to be wandering through the courtyard on her way to Aegon’s garden, and couldn’t resist striking her down; after all she was taking what was rightfully hers. Kate had attacked Laura whilst she was in silent meditation and then placed the ring of wildfire around her unconscious body, ensuring that dragon fire would claim her before she could sully her family’s blood. 

She hadn’t counted on Laura’s uncle willingly sacrificing himself to pull her out of the fire’s reach, and now the Targaryens currently find themselves in a precarious situation. 

Given the attempt on Laura’s life, the Starks refuse to honour the betrothal and are calling for Kate to appear for a trial in King’s Landing. If the Targaryens refuse to relinquish Kate, they will find themselves at war with the Crown. If they are forced to go to war against the Baratheon King, as their earlier plan dictated, they will now find themselves in a situation where the Starks are no longer forced allies, and John Baratheon is still the king on the Iron Throne; two major complications. 

It is because of these complications that Gerard Targaryen is currently seated at a table with one Scott Arryn, discussing his interest in marrying his daughter Allison. If he convinces Scott to pledge the support of Arryn bannermen, in honour of his love for Allison, the Targaryen numbers would see a valuable increase. 

Gerard looks upon Scott with calculating eyes, “Have you heard the lies the Starks are spinning about my family Lord Scott,” he asks coolly. 

Scott nods his head solemnly, “Yes Lord Gerard,” he swallows deeply, “They say that your daughter Lady Kate attacked Lady Laura Stark.” 

Gerard’s face remains stony, “No, they are saying my entire family perpetrated this attack. Which means that they are suggesting my daughter Allison is also responsible for the heinous crimes committed.”

Scott frowns, “Lady Allison would never willingly harm an innocent,” he exclaims in protest. 

Gerard raises a hand to quiet him, “I am well aware. However, I fear that neither the Starks nor the Baratheons have any interest in these truths. If I allow my daughter Kate to be present at this farcical trial, she will find herself declared guilty under biased judges, and without a head on her shoulders,” he says in a concerned tone.

Scott cracks his knuckles and Gerard takes it as a good sign to continue. “If my eldest daughter is going to be set out to take the sword for these crimes, what is to say that the Starks and Baratheons won’t be coming after the rest of my family,” he sighs. 

Scott looks upon Gerard with a hopefully expression, “Is there anything I can do to help Lord Gerard,” he ask tentatively, “You family does not deserve to face such injustice.” 

Gerard schools his face into an expression of despair and shakes his head, “I am sorry, but I fear this witch hunt is going to spiral into a war. I refuse to let my children be condemned for crimes they did not commit, even if it means that I will need to rally our bannermen to the defense.” 

A look of distress falls upon Scott’s face, “But the Starks and Baratheons will outnumber your bannermen tenfold. Your House will fall, Lady Allison will fall.”

Gerard gives a sad smile, “Unfortunately that is a reality I must accept. I cannot ask your father to get involved in a conflict that does not concern him; just as I would hope he would not drag me into one of his without precedent.” Scott remains silent in contemplation. 

Gerard can almost see the gears turning in the boy’s head. Allison wasn’t lying; the boy is indeed infatuated with her. All he needed to do was plant the idea, and let Scott do the rest. 

Scott looks at Gerard with a fierce determination, “What if House Arryn had a reason to support House Targaryen, should this discrepancy spiral into a war,” he asks. 

Gerard tries to look surprised, “What do you mean Lord Arryn,” he asks in a faux innocent voice. 

“I am asking for permission to court and marry your daughter Lady Allison,” Scott says plainly. 

Gerard smiles, “Ah yes, Allison is quite fond of you.” Gerard shakes his head, “But I don’t want to pressure you into this. A war is a horrible reason for marriage.”

“I wouldn’t be for war,” Scott says quickly, “It would be for love.”

“Hmm,” Gerard says. He looks at Scott for a moment before rising from his seat to grab a pitcher of wine. “My son Christophe told me he was marrying for love, now he finds himself staring down the wrong end of a sword.” He carries the wine and two cups back to the table before continuing. “Because of this whole mess, he is now set to marry Victoria Tully in hopes of securing more men to our side.” 

Gerard fills a cup for Scott and then his own, “I would hate for you to feel pressured into a similar scenario Lord Arryn,” Gerard says with distressed tone in his voice. 

Scott vehemently shakes his head, “I promise you Lord Targaryen, that I feel nothing but love towards Lady Allison. Ensuring the continued protection of her livelihood and family would be my honour and pleasure.” 

A large smile settles itself on Gerard’s face, “Then let us toast to a union of House Arryn and House Targaryen,” he exclaims happily. 

There is no doubt in Gerard’s mind that this is going to turn into a war, and whilst the Baratheons are still sitting around awaiting a trial, he is already rallying realms behind him. Things may not have gone according to plan, but there is still time to not only assassinate the king, but once again place a Targaryen on the Iron Throne.


	7. Wear it in silence, or I’ll honour you again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Holy shit we made it over 1400 hits. A huge thank you to the like 35 of you who have stuck around to keep reading. 
> 
> II. I have started adding photo manips to each chapter for your enjoyment. 
> 
> III. As usual leave your comments, so I know what you guys are thinking, it helps a lot.

### KING'S LANDING

An eerie atmosphere had begun to settle over King’s Landing; dark clouds began to cover the skies, and the sound of thunder began to roll through the city. Mothers were anxiously herding their children back into their homes and closing up the windows in preparation. Outside of the Red Keep, the Baratheon standards were being whipped by the wind—one eventually succumbing to the pressure, torn from its post and disappearing into the approaching storm. 

Whatever darkness had been brewing at Dragonstone was beginning to make its way south towards the capital, a shadow beginning to descend over the realms. The failed wedding between Christophe Targaryen and Laura Stark had once again fuelled the fires of animosity between the two houses. The ruling houses of the realms were doing their own part in fanning the flames, by openly proclaiming allegiance to the sides in the conflict. All of this conflict coming to head with the impeding trial of Kate Targaryen. 

The corridors through which Derek and Stiles walked were empty and silent, even within the walls of the castle, people were beginning to seek shelter from the impending storm. Derek had little idea if they were hiding from the wind beginning to batter down on the windows, or from the notorious Stark anger that his father was likely to be projecting throughout the halls. 

Truth be told, he found himself wandering the halls in awe. It was difficult to take in every attribute of his surroundings; possibly because Stiles was dragging him along by their joined hands. It had taken numerous attempts to get the Prince off of his lap and out the door, but once he had gotten the Prince to comply he nearly found himself receiving whiplash. Stiles may find the capital to be dull, but he would have preferred to catalogue his surroundings; a habit he learned from Peter. 

A habit Laura would have done well to learn. She was always too trusting, but then again she has never had a reason to fear people. His family is well loved in the North; Laura has never had anyone show her anything but kindness. According to Stiles, Laura is unconscious and will remain so until the Gods see fit. She was lucky to escape with her life. 

His uncle is another matter entirely. Stiles had described him as quiet or detached, two descriptors that he would never attribute to his uncle. The only time Peter was ever quiet was when he began to plot; an event no one should ever hope to find one’s self on the receiving end of. He has no doubt that at this moment Peter is deducing how to seek retribution with minimal collateral damage. His father on the other hand, is probably still counting the strokes it would take to cut down the entire Targaryen family in a go; he has little complaint against either course of action.

The King is doing his best to remain diplomatic in the face of the growing conflict, but Derek has no doubt that trial is likely to spiral out of control. One can’t throw a mad dragon onto its knees before stags, lions and wolves and not expect it to lash out. The only thing alleviating the knots in his stomach is the fact Stiles has been a constant by his side. 

Derek can’t help but grin at the boy pulling him along through the corridors. Derek isn’t an idiot; he knows that they barely know anything about one another—after all they just met a few days ago. His parents hadn’t even met one another prior to their wedding, yet they are happily married. If they can be happily married, there is no reason that he should ignore his budding feelings for the Prince. 

Derek isn’t an idiot; he knows they will have fights and that there will undoubtedly be issues they will need to overcome. However, this does little to quell the anticipation he feels towards formally courting the Prince, the Prince who is currently gazing upon him as if he hung the moon. Derek takes a deliberate step forward and closes the arm length between them. This could definitely work.

Suddenly the door in front them opens to reveal one Peter Stark, “Are you two just going to stand there drooling over one another, or do you actually plan on visiting the poor indisposed Starks,” he asks dryly. 

Derek does his best to hide his surprise but it is a trying venture. The right side of Peter’s face is now scarred by the wildfire, and his face is void of any youthful joy it once carried. He has also changed his style of dress in accommodation. Peter used to wear light clothing despite the chill of the north; now Derek finds him covering as much skin as possible. Despite the dark layers covering his uncle, he can almost judge from memory where the long expanse of scarring would mark the skin. 

Derek spares a small smile, “We came to visit you and Laura,” he glances at Stiles and receives an unsubtle thumbs up in response, “If you are willing that is.” 

Peter’s face remains void of emotion but he steps back from the doorway nonetheless. 

Derek releases a sigh of relief and follows Stiles into the chamber after Peter. 

When he enters the first sight he sees is Laura lying in her bed. Derek knows his mind will see what he wants, but to him, Laura looks peaceful in her sleep. He knows that if he were to pull back her blankets, he would see the bandages wrapped around her abdomen. But like this, he can pretend that nothing bad has befallen his family. Like this, his family is still whole and happy, laughing in the courtyard of Winterfell. 

If he looks upon her peaceful face, he can then close his eyes and imagine her blinding smile at the news of him going to seek a betrothal; she would be ecstatic that her cold brother has found a stormy counterpart. 

In turn his uncle should be pulling him into a forceful embrace and making off colour comments about the union. Instead he sits by the window, refusing to express any hint of his true emotions. 

“Deceptive, isn’t it,” Peter asks in regards to Derek’s locked stare. Derek remains fixed by the door. “They couldn’t even wait to try and kill her until after the wedding. They couldn’t even wait to forge their farce of an alliance first. No, they had to try and kill the poor girl when her back was turned and she was vulnerable.” 

Derek slowly approaches Laura’s side and takes one of her hands in his own. “I’m glad they acted in cowardice. If they had waited until we left, Laura wouldn’t have had you to save her,” Derek looks upon Peter with shining admiration. 

A smile almost cracks Peter’s face, “I will have my scars, and she hers. Make no mistake about that.” 

Derek feels a light pressure on his forearm and looks down to see the Prince’s hand; it is a welcomed touch. He would praise any God in or around the realms for encountering the Prince only a few days ago; he has been the one light in this shroud of darkness that has descended upon his family. 

Stiles shares a small smile and leans his weight against Derek’s side. “The Targaryens responsible will get what is coming to them. There will be justice for their actions.” 

Peter raises a brow at the Prince, “Oh? You feel that the trial will uphold justice, no questions asked.”

Stiles takes a moment to consider the question, “Well yes. Why would we have a system of laws in place if it didn’t work,” he asks with a confused tone. 

For a brief moment a look of interest flickers across Peter’s face, he almost looked like his old self. “All of Westeros is governed by laws, yet here we find ourselves staring down the wrong end of a sword. The Targaryens are likely to declare open rebellion; the Greyjoys are a constant pain in the arse; the Tyrells dance around the Reach handing out flower crowns whilst their bannermen kill Dornishmen. The laws only work if people truly fear the consequences.” 

This is Peter; this is the uncle Derek knows. The uncle who has spent countless hours teaching him about all the Houses in Westeros; how to best inflict justice; and how to one day become Lord of Winterfell. Peter is in his element when he is able to teach, and from what Derek has heard, the Prince could use a good lesson in politics. 

The Prince releases a huff of annoyance at his uncle’s word, “They wouldn’t bend the knee if they didn’t fear the consequences.”

At this a smile does crack Peter’s face, “They all bent the knee when they were alone in their goals. If all of them were to align themselves into one faction of usurpers and rebels, one could suggest they no longer fear the consequences.” 

A look of worry skirts across the Prince’s face, “You are suggesting that the realm will be going to war,” he says in a cautious voice. 

Peter smiles widely, “No little prince, I am saying that the realm will be going to war. Someone will fire the first shot, and then all hell will break loose.”

The colour falls from the Prince’s face, Derek gives his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Perhaps we should go talk to your father now,” he asks in hopes of relieving the tension. 

Stiles nods his head with a jerk but gives Derek a shaky smile, “I think we should, I am sure your uncle needs his rest.”

“Thank you for allowing me the visit uncle, I will be sure to come back to the two of you again,” Derek says with a warm smile and begins to lead the Prince towards the door. Derek opens the door for Stiles, and as he is about to pass through Peter gives his parting words. 

“I do hope you have enjoyed your brief lesson in politics my Prince, I have heard that your interests in ruling only lie within the so called engaging matters. I’m sure you will find the disposal of thousands of rotting corpses to be much more interesting than literacy rates and crop production,” Peter says with a sharp smile on his face. 

Stiles give a shaky nod and quickly strides out of the door into the corridor; Derek can only spare a tense smile at his uncle before following. 

Before him is an interesting sight; Stiles is crouched down balancing on the balls of his feet, his face pressed into his hands. Derek knows his uncle’s words had been harsh, but they weren’t far from the truth. Derek is only one of many lords who have heard the whispers of the carefree heir to the throne. 

At this moment, Stiles looks to be anything but carefree. He raises his face from his hands and looks up at Derek, “I am literally going to be the worst king Westeros has ever seen. Even the fucking Northerners know how little I have to offer,” he says in a self-deprecating tone. 

“Stiles…” Derek starts. 

The Prince gives a sharp laugh in response, “Don’t fucking Stiles me,” he stands and begins to pace the length of the corridor. “Did you know that you are the first man to show any interest in me,” he spits out angrily. Derek is frozen where he stands; this was not the reaction he expected. 

Derek’s silence does not seem to deter the Prince in the slightest. “I have had one interested party actually, Lady Lydia Tyrell. However, it turned out all she wanted was to be called queen and fawned over,” a twisted smirk finds its way to the Prince’s face. “So, what is it exactly that you want wolf? You seem to known as good as any Southerner, what a sad excuse for a king I will be. Are you sick of the North, would rather marry me and then usurp the throne? Do you think if you fuck a child into me, that you will somehow have a claim to that iron monstrosity my father sits on,” he asks furiously. 

Derek is speechless. Earlier he had no doubt over the Prince’s Florent blood, the boy is a mischievous as any fox. But now, Derek sees nothing but a true Baratheon in front of him; ours is the fury indeed. Derek raises his hands in a placating gesture and takes a deliberate step back from the angered Prince. “I have no interest in your throne, my Prince.” Derek recognizes the need to be cautious, formalities must be acknowledged. 

Derek understands the Prince’s own worries over his eventual reign; Derek has been subject to his own. After all, the entire North is vast, highly populated and the winters are long and hard. However, the difference between himself and the Prince is that he has never had the ability to shrug off his responsibilities. The Prince has been without a mother for many years, his uncle rules over the Stormlands, and his father is busy taking care of the multitude of citizens within the realms; the Prince has all but raised himself. 

“If I have offended you, I offer my sincerest apologies my Prince,” Derek says cautiously. His father had always taught him to be wary of those with the power to swing a sword over your head. You may call someone friend, but friendship does not prohibit the destruction of one’s house or name. 

The Prince angrily scrubs his hands over his face before releasing a sigh and taking a step towards Derek; Derek immediately takes two quick strides backwards in response. 

This action stuns the Prince and he stares at Derek in shock. He once again takes a stride forward and Derek responds the same. Derek can feel panic beginning to flood his system. This is not a situation that a wolf can fight its way out of; submission is the only course of action. 

Derek quickly drops to his knees and keeps his eyes on the ground, refusing to meet the prince’s gaze. Peter’s words had greatly angered the Prince, and Derek was not going to end up with his head on a spike, because his uncle had consumed far too much milk of the poppy. 

The silence in the corridor is deafening, but Derek refuses to speak out of turn. At this moment his status of Lord means nothing. Instead he poignantly keeps his gazed fixed on the polished stone below him and tries to keep his heart calm. 

“Are you afraid of me,” Stiles ask quietly. Derek does not answer. “Look at me,” Stiles says after a few moments. When Derek refuses to comply the Prince asks again, “Look at me,” the command in his voice does not go unnoticed. 

Derek takes a deep breath and raises his eyes to meet the Prince’s gaze. “I command you to answer me. Are you afraid of me,” the Prince asks. 

“It would be unwise to not fear you my Prince,” Derek says carefully. 

Stiles releases a choked off laugh in response. “Fucking perfect. Just fucking perfect,” he yells as he kicks over the standing candelabrum in the corridor. The Prince turns around and strides towards Derek. Derek gives a hard flinch at the angry gaze on the Prince’s face, which has him coming to a sudden halt, concern clouding his features.

“Please don’t,” he says quietly. Derek remains silent, in response Stiles tentatively begins to close the remaining distance between them and begins to raise a hand towards Derek’s face; Derek can only close his eyes tightly and wait to be struck. When he feels pressure on his face, it is only from Stiles slowly beginning to card his fingers through his hair. The Prince sucks in a shaky breath, “Please don’t,” he repeats. 

“I’m sorry my Prince,” Derek says quickly. 

Stiles fingers tighten for a second, before he drops to his knees in front of Derek and takes his face between his hands. “I should be the one apologizing not you. I am the one who was flinging accusations, you have done nothing wrong,” Stiles affirms. 

Derek makes a mental note; acts of submission apparently work quite well. The Prince has spent his entire life having everything, yet receiving nothing he desires. He has suddenly found himself to be a coveted object dangling in front of the Prince’s face. The problem is that the Prince has yet to decide if Derek is within his reach, or if he is going to be pulled away from him like a piece of string from a cat. 

At Derek’s continued silence, moisture begins to collect in the corners of Stiles’ eyes. “I see I have driven us towards an impasse,” Stiles says sadly as he rises from his knees and begins to walk away. When he reaches the end of the corridor he suddenly stops and looks back at Derek over his shoulder, realizing that he has yet to raise from his knees. “You can rise now,” he says in a choked voice. He shifts his gaze to the stone beneath his feet as drops of moisture fall from his eyes and land upon them. He takes a few deep breaths and then heads down the left corridor, out of sight and out of hearing.

Once the Prince is gone Derek slowly rises to his feet and quickly heads in the opposite direction. He can’t go back to the Prince’s room, and he most certainly can’t follow him. He isn’t going back in with Peter and Laura, not after experiencing that. His only option is to find his father and seek desperately needed council. 

Derek knows how he feels about the Prince; it is up to the Prince to decide how he truly feels about him. Is he merely some passing fancy, that the Prince will throw away when another is brought to his attention, or will the Prince see him as an equal; someone worthy of his time. 

Today has been a harsh reminder of reality; today Derek found out that the Prince’s temper even expands in his direction, despite never being the instigator. He now has no reason to assume that the Prince’s attention towards him isn’t fleeting, a convenience for when he needs reassurance. Derek isn’t expecting a declaration of undying love, but he refuses to enter into a relationship without some indication of equal footing. 

Stiles is the prince of the Westeros and will one day be the king, that is more than enough power imbalance for his liking. Stiles will always be more powerful than Derek, and he is willing to accept this reality. However, if Stiles plans to use this imbalance over Derek in their private lives, he knows he won’t be able to continue pursuing the Prince. 

Derek doesn’t need to be coddled or told he is special every night, what he needs is reassurance that he won’t find himself accused of treason, or worse without a head. He needs to know that he matters enough to be indispensable, not a plaything for the Prince to parade around in front of the lords and ladies of the court. 

Until he has this reassurance, Derek vows to remain focused on his family, not the Prince. Perhaps this was the result of the Gods keeping an eye on him, making sure he wouldn’t make any rash decisions and run straight to the King for a betrothal. The Prince is unfortunately a distraction Derek can’t afford, especially in face of the impending Targaryen rebellion. Peter’s words may have been a catalyst for the Prince’s ire, but they were not misplaced. A storm is coming to Westeros, and it is arriving under the shadow of a dragon.

### THE EYRIE

The Eyrie is the seat of the House Arryn, located within the realm of Mountain and Vale. The Vale is found on the eastern shore of Westeros, bordered by the North and the Riverlands. Similar to realm of Dorne, it is protected by large mountain ranges, however the ranges in the Vale are almost impassable. 

Because of these monstrous mountain ranges, the Eyrie has often been described as impregnable from attack, and thus no one is willing to sacrifice his or her men in order to lead an ill-advised siege against the Eyrie. This has allowed House Arryn to remain neutral in the face of numerous conflicts over the years. At least until one Scott Arryn decided to pledge his unyielding support to House Targaryen in concession for Lady Allison Targaryen’s hand in marriage. 

Lord Rafael Arryn had been livid when he heard the news, but Scott has been paying little attention to his words. He vows that he loves Allison, and he will marry her. He isn’t going to allow any of the Starks to bring harm upon her. 

He had met Allison at a tournament in the Reach, introduced to her through Lady Lydia Tyrell, and the attraction had been instant. Allison had been interested about all aspects of life in the Vale, from the plants to the politics, and he was happy to give her the knowledge. As a result they stayed in contact, sent ravens between themselves and overtime the relationship grew into something strong, something Scott knows is called love. 

Allison was beautiful and everything he could have ever desired. Everyone always spoke of the mad dragons from the Crownlands, but Allison was anything but mad. She was soft spoken and wouldn’t dare hurt someone unless she was defending herself. He knows Allison better than anyone, so why can’t his father understand his actions and place his trust within them. 

He knows Allison feels the same for him as he does for her, he knows she would lay down her life for him the same way he would risk his for her. Pledging his allegiance to House Targaryen is no different then pledging his love to Allison. His father is so concerned about House Arryn remaining neutral, yet when he married his mother, he undoubtedly pledged his allegiance to House Tully; Scott fails to see how this is any different. 

Despite listening to his father rant and rave for close to an hour, Scott has yet to be convinced by any of his father's words. Every marriage is a sign of good faith between houses, regardless of when the match takes place. Lord Gerard had told Scott that the wedding shouldn’t take place until after the tensions between houses had calmed down. He wants to ensure their union is a happy one, why his own father couldn’t support him was a mystery at best.

Instead of support he has received nothing but a constant barrage of words filled with disappointment and anger. He understand that yes, he did not consult his father before, and yes the peace in Westeros is currently quite precarious, but honestly he knows what he is doing. 

Scott releases a dramatic sigh, “You need to trust me. I am telling you that I know what am I doing.”

Rafael collapses in his seat and releases a long suffering sigh, “Have you literally heard nothing that I have said,” he asks in disbelief

Scott shifts his weight from one foot to another, “I have heard you father, but I refuse to break my vows. I am going to marry Allison Targaryen.” 

Rafael shakes his head, “Scott I am asking you to be reasonable,” he says with a sigh. 

“No you are asking me to leave Allison for dead,” Scott yells in retaliation. 

At this blatant display of disrespect Rafael Arryn stands and purposely strides towards his son and strikes him, Scott hits the floor with a jarring thud. Rafael crouches down and grabs the front of Scott’s shirt, bringing him within an inch of his face. “I am your lord and your father, do not test me boy,” he says through clenched teeth. 

At this moment, Scott finally realizes he may have overstepped his bounds. This is the first instance his father has ever struck him, and all over a silly disagreement. The Targaryens are loyal to the Crown; they are only interested in protecting themselves. His father should be proud that he is forging unions between houses, carving out his own place in the realms. Instead Scott finds himself with a split lip and the taste of iron on his tongue. 

Scott bows his head, “My apologies father, I did not mean to offend. But I remain strong in my decision. Gerard Targaryen gave me his word that they will only harm those who harm them, they have no interest in the iron throne.” 

Rafael remains sceptical, “You honestly expect me to believe that they are willing to go to war over protecting the lives of their family members, a war they would likely lose, yet have no interest in the throne,” he asks evenly. 

Scott vehemently nods his head, “Yes, I promise father. We agreed that the wedding would not occur until after the tension across the realms is dissolved. He wants a happy union for his daughter, he said so himself.” 

Rafael hums in contemplation over Scott’s words. “What are our words Scott,” he asks. 

A look of confusion covers Scott’s face, “Words,” he asks quietly. 

“House Arryn of the Vale, what are our words,” Rafael asks again. 

“As high as honour,” Scott replies. 

Rafael gives a proud smile, “And as a member of House Arryn, do you feel that you can trust the honour of Gerard Targaryen. Can you put unwavering faith in his words,” he asks. 

Scott nods his head, “He is Allison’s father, and I trust Allison with my life. I have no reason to not extend the same courtesy and faith to the rest of her family members.” 

Rafael reluctantly stands and yanks Scott up to his feet. “If you want to marry the Targaryen girl, I’m not going to stop you.” Scott plasters a beaming smile on his face. “However…” Rafael continues, “If this scrap between the Targaryens and Starks progresses to blows, we are not getting involved.” 

Scott immediately interjects, “But Lady Allison…” Rafael delivers him a hard look, “Is still a Targaryen, she is not yet an Arryn, and thus not yet our responsibility,” he emphasizes. 

“I can’t let any harm come to her,” Scott yells in distress.

Rafael sighs, “You just told me that the Targaryens have no interest in the throne, or instigating a war. There is no reason for any harm to befall Allison if those words are true.” 

Scott grinds his teeth but knows to hold his tongue. Allison is honourable, her family is honourable; he has no reason to doubt the words of her father. He glances up at Rafael, “Yes father, I understand. May I be excused,” he says quietly. 

Rafael smiles and claps him on the shoulder, “I’m glad we could see eye to eye. I shall see you in the morning for your lessons.” 

Scott bows and quickly strides out of the High Hall and towards his own room. If his father thinks he isn’t willing to go against him for the sake of Allison’s life, he may not know anything at all. If the Baratheons are going to condone a war against the Targaryens for imagined slights, he will do everything in his power to support the innocents. 

Scott knows where his priorities lie, and they do not align with those of his father. If war comes to Westeros his father is likely to either remain neutral or align himself with the Crown to gain good favour. Scott could careless about gaining favour with the Baratheons, they do not require his aid. They have large armies and vaults of Lannister gold; they are well equipped for a war. 

The Targaryens are victims at the hands of vicious wolves from the North. If any of those wolves go after his betrothed, he will not hesitate to do everything in his power to strike them down; and he swears that on his honour as an Arryn.

### ROSBY

Between King’s Landing and Duskendale, is the Rosby road, upon which lies the town of the same name. It is not a large one by any stretch of the imagination; it is mostly comprised of small daub-and-wattle huts of the farmers, surrounding the small castle of House Rosby. 

Rosby allegiance once belonged to the Targaryens, but when Gendry Baratheon crushed the last Targaryen rebellion, they had become bannermen of house Baratheon. Rosby is a peaceful town, a common resting place for those whom travel between the realms; their hospitality is known throughout all of Westeros. 

Despite the bustle that consumes the town during the day, it is often a serene atmosphere come nightfall, once the sun descends below the horizon. On a normal night one would be able to take a stroll through the streets and see the smoke rising from the hearths within the houses, families sitting around a table for a warm meal. On this night smoke does rise from Rosby, but not from a hearth. 

The dark smoke that seems to consume the night sky is rising from the massive green flames that engulf the entirety of the small town. When the wildfire had been ignited, the screams of the people instantly began to fill the air; but within minutes the fire had burned hot enough to melt them down to ash, leaving the smoke to choke out their screams for help. By morning nothing will be left of the town but a castle of melted and twisted stone, the huts and people having already been reduced to nothingness. 

The only two remaining souls within miles of the city are sitting atop their horses on a cresting hill, the light of the flames dancing across their faces, a Targaryen banner proudly waving above their heads.


	8. Gods mock the prayers of kings and cowherds alike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. enjoy your quick look at your favourite vehicles turned horses.

### KING'S LANDING

Derek was completely and utterly done with King’s Landing. The humidity was stifling, the castle was loud and the people were a pain in the arse. The previous day he had gone in search of his father only to find him in private council with the King, naturally he was turned away. He had no interest joining Cora or his mother in some stitching circle, so he instead chose to explore King’s Landing.

The gold cloaks did nothing but glare at him and herd him around in circles until his head was spinning. The lords and ladies of the court were only interested in gaining the details surrounding the happenings at Dragonstone; an event Derek is not planning on reciting once, let alone tens of times. He was close to his breaking point until the Master of Whisperers had finally happened upon him. 

Boyd Mormont had been a sight for sore eyes; a friend Derek had remembered growing up with in the North. Boyd had taken pity upon Derek and helped guide him away from the prying eyes of the court and to a quiet corner of the castle. Derek had suggested they leave the residence all together and hit a tavern within the city walls; Boyd had been reduced to tears with the raucous laughter that escaped him. 

Boyd had been kind enough to inform Derek that if he took him anywhere, there would undoubtedly be women and men waiting in the wings to catch his attention, and should any of them succeed—their heads would be on spikes before the sun began to climb back over the horizon. Derek had naturally been offended that sleeping with a Northerner was considered such a crime in the South; this had simply caused another bout of laughter to escape from his companion. 

Apparently the title Master of Whisperers was well earned, as Boyd had heard many little birds telling him about the Prince’s infatuation with the northern wolf. If one were to simply lay a hand upon Derek, the Prince would naturally take it as a great offense, and in accordance with the theme of the day, react poorly. Derek is adamant that he took the news well; Boyd remains adamant that Derek moaned like a putout child. 

Derek had admitted defeat in his plans to experience everything the capital had to offer, and instead requested that Boyd show him to his quarters. According to Boyd, he had been forced to drag Derek to his room and lock him in; ensuring the city remained peaceful. After establishing that he was indeed trapped inside his chambers, he spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning in a fitful sleep. 

He now sits on his bed staring at the door that is barring his escape, willing it with his mind to splinter into pieces. If he can’t will the door to break, he has half a mind to take a sword to it instead. He had spent the night locked in his room because of the spoiled little shit of a Prince. He fails to see how he deserves to be punished because the Prince doesn’t know how to handle not getting his way. 

Derek was open to trusting to him, he was willing to give the boy the benefit of the doubt as long as he gave him the respect he deserves. Instead the Prince had thrown accusations of treason towards him, and all but shoved his head onto a block. Had guards been in the corridor, or Gods forbid the King was present—Derek doesn’t even want to consider what situation, or more likely what chains, he could have found himself in. 

Derek flops back against his bed and releases a long sigh; this is going to be a long day if someone doesn’t let him out of this god-forsaken room. Derek side eyes his sword and wonders if the damage to the sword is worth the damage to the door; he could just get the royal smith to forge him a new one. 

The sound of footsteps in the hall has his eyes training themselves on the door; they appear to stop right outside his door, Gods be merciful. A key is scrapping in the lock and soon enough the door is pushed open to reveal his father on the other side. 

Brandon Stark looks at his son and gives a short laugh, “I’m a little worried that you failed to get out of bed, but at least you saw fit to put your clothes on.”

Derek raises a brow at his father, “Why would I get out of bed, when I can’t even get out of my room,” he asks dryly. 

His father leans his weight against the doorway and crosses his arms, “About that, any chance you can explain to me why Ser Boyd Mormont came to me last night, and handed me the key to your room,” he asks with laughter on the edge of his voice.  
Derek rolls his eyes, “I am apparently a danger to the livelihood of the capital’s citizens.”

His father looks sceptical, “Were you planning on leading a one man sacking of the city, or is there something you haven’t told me,” he asks dryly

Derek releases a huff and sits up to look at his father, “I got… infatuated with a pretty face. A pretty face attached to a spiteful and vengeful little prince,” he says before flopping back down on the bed. 

His father rubs a hand over his face and groans, “Oh Gods Derek, please tell me you didn’t fuck him.” 

At that Derek shoots straight up, “Fuck him,” he yells indignantly, “I barely touched him. He was the one that couldn’t keep his fucking hands to himself.”

His father releases a huge sigh of relief, before narrowing his eyes at his son, “If you didn’t fuck him and leave him, why are you locked in your room,” he asks suspiciously. 

Derek winces, “We had a disagreement…” his father motions for him to continue, “Peter spoke some words that upset him, and he turned his ire on me… by accusing me of treason.”

His father’s eyes grow large and his mouth falls open, “What in the seven hells did my idiot brother say in order for you to be accused of treason.”

Derek shrugs but has the decency to look sheepish, “He said the Prince will have more fun disposing of rotting corpses than learning about literacy rates and crop production.” 

His father is speechless, and scrubs his hands over his face in dismay. After a few moments he looks guiltily at his son, “Well, I have good news and bad news for you.”

Derek raises his brows in question. “The bad news is that we are to accompany the King and his son on a hunt, in order to help alleviate the rising tensions in court. The good news is the since the King will be present, I highly doubt the Prince will put a crossbow bolt through your eye.”

Derek clenches his jaw. “He wouldn’t be able to put a bolt through my eye, because by the time he called a squire to ready a bow for him and learned how to shoot it, I would no longer be in point blank range.” 

His father’s face turns serious and he regards Derek for a moment, “You seem to be taking these accusations to heart,“ he says softly.

“How else would one take accusations of treason,” Derek replies sharply. 

“Did he apologize,” his father asks

“Yes,” Derek replies testily

“Then why are you still so upset over a spur of the moment accusation, that might I add, the Prince has already apologized for,” his father asks, as he strides towards Derek and takes a seat next to him on the bed. 

Derek huffs, “Because it is the fact of the matter. He can’t just run around accusing people of treason every time someone says something he doesn’t like.”

“Does he know you well,” his father asks, Derek shoots his father an icy look in reply, “No,” he says. His father hums in acquiesce, “Do you know him quite well then,” he asks innocently. Derek shakes his head. 

His father puts an arm around Derek’s shoulders and pulls him close, “It won’t do you any good to hold onto this anger. You are both young, you are both stupid, and so help me you are both going to get over this.”

Derek releases a long sigh and tries to shove down the animosity he is feeling. 

“I’m not saying he wasn’t at fault,” his father continues, “But I am saying, you need to realize this spoiled little shit has a lot of learning to do. Come on, a ride will do you good. I am sure Camaro will enjoy a good gallop as much as you right now.” 

Derek can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face, “A ride would be nice, but I’ll stay beside you if that’s alright.”

His father laughs and shakes his head. “Whatever will get you through the day.” 

With that they rise from the bed and begin to make their way to the royal stables. His father is right; some fresh air would do him good. King’s Landing is much more stifling than Winterfell. The North is huge and allows for greater distances between towns and castles, he has room to ride and get away. In the South he feels enclosed, almost as if there isn’t enough air for him to breath. 

When they reach the stables, Camaro is a welcomed sight. Derek can’t help but add a skip to his step at the sight of his horse saddled and ready. He swings himself up onto his horse and inhales a deep breath of fresh air before throwing a blinding smile at his father.

Derek is almost prepared to declare his foul mood dead when a loud squealing has him turning Camaro on his forehand for a better look. The poor stable boys are attempting to saddle a dapple grey Dornish Sand Steed, who keeps striking out at each approaching figure. Derek furrows his brow and shakes his head in pity, “Who in their right mind would own something that finicky,” he asks his father in an unimpressed voice. 

His father raises a brow but tilts his head towards an approaching figure, the Prince. Derek leans his weight forward and with a groan shoves his face into Camaro’s mane; his father pats him on the back out of sympathy. 

His father gives an amused shake of his head, “Don’t make a scene Derek, even your horse thinks you are over reacting,” he glances at Camaro who is diligently doing his best to chew on Derek’s stirrups. With a sigh Derek raises his head and grimaces at the approaching Prince. 

Stiles is storming over towards the stable boys and waving his hands in the air, “Stop stop stop,” he repeatedly yells, “Whatever you idiots are doing stop it. You are just upsetting him more.” The stable boys begin to babble quick apologies, and hurry out of the Prince’s way. Stiles shoots them an icy glare before beginning to saddle his horse. 

Derek was serious when he had thought this ride would help clear his mind. Only a few days earlier he had been lucky enough to find the Prince in his lap, now he is on the receiving end of dramatic eye rolls and biting comments. He doesn’t know how to classify their relationship, but he knows it is a tentative one. Unfortunately the Prince still appears to be in a foul mood, a mood that is likely to put a damper on the ride. Derek suspects that as long as he can stay near his father, the ride will be a success; it should be no different than the hunts they go on at home. 

“Perhaps we should head out onto the road, examine our surroundings,” Derek suggests with faux casualty in his voice. 

Before his father can answer both the King and the Prince come trotting over and rein to a halt beside them. Stiles gives Derek a long look, “You are with me, hurry up,” he says before cantering off out of the gate. 

Derek’s father gives a small chuckle before glancing at his son, “At least he doesn’t have a crossbow,” he says with a shrug. Derek’s face is anything but impressed. 

The King cocks a brow in regards to the exchange, “Anything I should know about,” he asks curiously.

Derek shakes his head, “Until your son conveniently finds my dead body in the trees, you have nothing to worry about,” he says before cueing Camaro into an easy canter and heading out after the Prince. 

Stiles had apparently been bound and determined to put a significant amount of distance between themselves and the rest of the hunting party; Derek would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little worried. 

When he finally catches up to Stiles he reins back to a walk and allows Camaro to match strides with the Prince’s own mount. The two of them ride together in silence for a number of minutes, neither of them making an effort to alleviate the tension. Derek refuses to look directly at Stiles, instead he uses his peripheral vision to keep an eye on him. 

The Prince spends the next few minutes throwing annoyed glances at Derek before releasing a dramatic sigh, “Look… I know we aren’t exactly best friends at the moment, but you need to realize that you don’t get to tell me what to do.” 

Derek turns to acknowledge the Prince and merely lifts an unimpressed brow in response. 

Stiles gives a smug smirk in return, “My kingdom, my rules.” 

Derek takes a moment to try and dissolve his building anger before speaking. “From what I recall, I never once told you what to do. Yet for some reason, you were quite compelled to accuse me of plotting murder and usurping the throne.” 

Stiles winces, “I may have jumped to conclusions, but…” 

Derek quickly interjects, “May have jumped to conclusions,” he grits out from clenched teeth. 

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Nothing happened,” he waves a hand in Derek’s direction, “You are right here beside me.”

“If any of the King’s Guard, City Watch or your fucking father, heard your accusations, I would be sitting in a dark cell with chains around my wrists,” Derek hisses angrily. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” the Prince chastises. “You would have been in there for a few hours at most, right up until I said ‘oops my fault’, and then they would have let you go.” 

Derek is unable to contain the growl that escapes him, “So what you are saying, is that you are only interested in having me around when it is convenient for you? If I was bleeding out from a crossbow bolt in my arm, you would just leave me laying in the dirt,” he questions evenly. 

The Prince’s face contorts into an expression of confusion, “Why would I care if you had a bolt in your arm. Princes don’t have to deal with blood-seeping wounds; that is what healers are for.”

“Wrong answer,” Derek says, as he cues Camaro into a hand gallop and takes off away from the Prince. He can hear Stiles commanding him to come back, but frankly he has no patience for anymore of the Prince’s shit. 

Unfortunately, Stiles doesn’t seem to be willing to let him ago, and Derek can hear the nearing hoof beats behind him. He decides he deserves a good laugh and reins Camaro back into a sliding stop. Stiles is taken off guard and in an attempt to quickly stop, nearly ends up flying over the shoulder of his own horse when it slips on the precarious footing. 

When he regains his seat, he reins his horse back beside Derek. “What the fuck were you thinking,” he demands. “You could have been hurt pulling that shit, more importantly I could have been thrown from my own horse,” he yells angrily. 

Derek raises his brows, “It wouldn’t matter if either of us were thrown, since the other wouldn’t have been required to care. That is what healers are for after all,” he replies sharply. 

A flush quickly begins to cover the Prince’s face and he ducks his head to look at the ground. “Yeah well, pay attention to the footing next time,” he says quietly. He quickly flickers his gaze between the ground and the sky before looking at Derek in confusion. “What is this shit anyway… snow,” he asks curiously. 

Derek shakes his head and looks up at the sky, “No it isn’t snow you…” an angry look from the Prince has him rethinking his words before continuing, “It isn’t snow,” he finishes lamely. 

“Are you sure,” Stiles asks, “Because this shit is falling from the sky.”

Derek rolls his eyes and sighs, “Yes I am sure. Or did you happen to forget that I am from the North,” he asks sarcastically. The Prince offers a half-hearted shrug in response. 

He spares a long look at the sky before looking down on the ground where Camaro is suspiciously snorting at the offending white fluff. A handful of the substance is blown up from the ground by the snort and flies up into Camaro’s mane. Derek curiously reaches forward and picks it out to examine it closer. When the realization hits him, he feels his blood run cold. 

“Ash” he says quietly.

The Prince’s eyes grow large and panicked, “Ash! An entire bloody town would have had to burn down for this much ash to be carried through the wind,” he says with a nervous crack in his voice. 

Derek quickly glances over his shoulder, but he is unable to see the remainder of the hunting party; just their fucking luck. He takes in the shaken form of the Prince and steels him with a hard look, “Turn your horse around, put him flat out and get back to the others,” he commands.

The Prince however isn’t listening; he is staring off down the road, as if expecting a large blaze to come roaring up over the horizon. 

“Stiles,” Derek yells, the worry evident in his voice. The Prince is shaken from his trance and with a sharp jerk turns to look at Derek. 

“You need to get out of here. Put your desert horse’s speed to good use and get back to your father and white cloaks,” he implores. 

“And what leave you,” Stiles asks indignantly. 

“Yes leave me,” he stresses, “I am not the Prince of Westeros; I am not in danger.” 

Stiles flickers his gaze between the road back to King’s Landing and Derek, before slowly turning his mount on the haunches; yet he still refuses to leave. Instead Derek finds himself and the Prince staring each other down in a silent conversation. Derek knows the Prince is likely to do the opposite of what he is told, simply because he can; but quite frankly now is not the time. 

“Please,” Derek says quietly. 

The Prince furrows his brow but after a moment he reluctantly cues his horse into a gallop and heads back towards the hunting party they had long ago left. 

Once Stiles has disappeared from his sight, Derek urges Camaro forward towards the source of the ash. The Prince wasn’t exaggerating when he said an entire town would have had to burn down, in order for this much ash to be floating in the atmosphere. Derek doesn’t know what he is going to find when he reaches the originating point of the fire; or more to the point, what he won’t find. 

After a few miles Derek finds himself pulling Camaro to a halt upon a cresting hill; below him should be the town of Rosby; all that remains is ash and scorched stone. 

Derek cues Camaro forward and slowly begins to make his way through the destroyed town. The warped castle is all that stands, so he heads towards it in hopes of finding any survivors. 

He dismounts from his horse and leaves Camaro to ground tie whilst he searches the burnt out castle. Derek knows there is only two things in existence that burn hot enough to melt stone, and those are dragons and wildfire. Dragons have been extinct for well over a thousand years; wildfire is something he finds himself growing far too familiar with. 

The only thing that could have done this damage is the Targaryen weapon of choice. He stares at the deformed rock and absently runs his hands along the twisted edges as he walks. The further he travels into the castle, the darker it grows and Derek finds himself cursing the lack of light. A sharp pain has him jerking a hand back towards his body, blood flowing freely from a deep gash in his palm. Derek shakes his head but continues on, after all finding survivors is more important than the blood weeping from the wound. 

Derek slowly wanders through the burnt out hull of a castle, but continues to find no survivors. The deeper he progresses the more ash his feet kick up, and he eventually finds himself succumbing to coughing fits. As he curses the ash, he has the sickening realization that what he is inhaling could be the very people he is looking for. Bile rises from his stomach into his throat and Derek takes off running through the ruins in hopes of finding an exit. 

Panic is beginning to simmer under the surface of Derek’s skin and he can feel tears collecting in the corner of his eyes. As he scrambles to find an exit, he can feel his chest tighten and his limbs grow numb. He doesn’t know why he is panicking; the wildfire isn’t burning his skin, he isn’t listening to his family scream. Yet the darkness surrounding him has his mind playing tricks. A voice whispers in the back of his mind, that the ash beneath his feet could have been Laura or Peter. 

When he finally scrambles outside, Derek is on his hands and knees, with tears flowing freely down his face. As he attempts to suck in much needed air, he ends up choking on the bile that comes spilling up from his throat. Derek crawls his way over to a crumbling exterior wall and brings his knees up to chest and wraps his arms around them. He sucks in shaky breaths and tries to spit out the taste of bile from his mouth.

Coming here was an awful idea; he should have just ridden back with Stiles. Now he finds himself hiding in a corner and crying like a child. Derek takes stock of his situation and buries his face into his knees with a groan. He has vomit down his front, his hand is bleeding, Camaro is likely long gone, and of course there is the fact he has been stomping his way through a glorified crypt. He should be getting up and walking his way back, but quite frankly he is still shaking far too much to walk anywhere. 

Derek isn’t going to lie about his current predicament; he is alone and frightened. He doesn’t know if the Targaryens have returned home, or if they will come back to finish the job, once they realize someone has happened upon the burnt down remains. A tremor runs through his body and Derek curls in closer upon himself. 

Derek doesn’t know how long he sits in the scorched ruins before he hears the sounds of thunderous hoof beats in the distance. He holds his defensive position and refuses to move until he hears his name being cried out. As the voices grow nearer, he can differentiate two distinct people, his father and the Prince. Thankfully it is his father who finds him first, he would prefer for no one else to see him in this state. 

His father jumps off of his horse and runs over to him before falling to his knees, and forcefully wrapping his arms around him. “Don’t you ever fucking scare me like that again,” he says with panic in his voice. Derek shoves his face into his father’s shoulder but nods his head all the same. 

“You are going to get as filthy as I am if you keep hugging me,” Derek says with a muffled voice.

His father gives a choked off laugh in response, “Do you honestly think I give a fuck,” he leans back and places his hands on Derek’s shoulders to look him over. “I saw blood, are you all right, can you ride,” he asks.

Derek holds up his bleeding hand, but shrugs all the same. “I’m fine to ride,” he says before gingerly standing and whistling for a hopefully waiting Camaro. 

His father nods and helps him up, and starts brushing off the ash and examining Derek’s hand as they walk towards his father’s waiting horse. Thankfully Camaro doesn’t take long to round a corner and jump a fallen archway before stopping in front of a relieved Derek. 

If anyone asks, Derek will say he mounted up on his own; in reality his father was kind enough to help steady him and as he hoisted himself into the saddle. As they ride back out towards the road, Derek does he best to keep his own eyes forward and ignore the lingering glances of the onlookers. 

Derek sucks in a shaky breath, “It was wildfire. They burnt down the entire fucking town… people and all,” he says quietly, “We need to do something.”

“We need to go home,” his father says plainly. “There is going to be a war whether we want one or not. We need to get back to Winterfell and call in our bannermen. This isn’t our duty to deal with. We have our own people to look after and our own battles to fight.”

Derek knows that there is nothing he can do here, but he feels partially responsible for what has happened. If he had talked Laura out of her wedding, none of this would have happened; all these people would still be alive. But he knows his father is right. His family needs to get back into the North before a full-fledged war breaks out and it is no longer safe to travel across the realms. 

The God of Death does not discriminate, he claims all his victims equally, be it farmers, soldiers, lords and ladies or even princes and kings. Derek knows he will be leading his own columns on the battlefield, and he will be responsible for the lives of his men, and the families they leave behind. He could watch his friends or family fall in battle, because of orders he gave; the thought makes his stomach churn. 

“We need to go home,” Derek acquiesces. 

“Come along then, we need to have everyone back on the road before nightfall” his father says before cueing his horse into a canter back towards King’s Landing. Derek is about to follow when a voice has him glancing behind. 

“Derek,” Stiles calls out in a relieved voice, the fear still evident on his face. 

The Prince may not feel the same way about him as he had originally thought, but Derek knows he can't direct all his focus on this one problem. Westeros is going to war, and he is going to have blood on his hands when it is all said and done; whether or not Stiles has any deeper feelings, beyond an appreciation for his looks, is far from relevant. His father is right, there are thousands of people in the North who are depending on him to do right by them, those are the people he needs to be worrying about. When he starts to feel his resolve begin to crumble, he gives a sad smile and bows his head in acknowledgement before turning round and cueing Camaro to follow after his father. With his back turned, he fails to see the look of hurt that filters across the Prince’s face.


	9. Let all true men declare their loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Chapters are going to take about a week to get up now, because there are way more story lines coming into play, and a stupid amount of things to cover. Also as a military historian I can't not describe battles if the opportunity presents itself. 
> 
> II. If you have complaints please voice them constructively in the comments, because quite frankly sending anon hate to my tumblr is just pathetic guys. 
> 
> III. If you guys can figure out where any of these plot lines are matching up with the show, I applaud you.

  


### WINTERFELL

The past weeks had physically and mentally shaken the Stark family. Laura had been attacked and left for dead at her own wedding; Peter will continue to suffer through intense pain and wear the scars of his sacrifice, both mental and physical, for the rest of his life; and Derek had experienced his first taste of the Targaryen brand of genocide. 

Under the urging of Brandon Stark, the family had returned home to Winterfell as quickly as possible, despite Laura’s condition. Laura had yet to wake form her comatose state, but the maesters remain adamant that she is healing and doing well. The Starks were relieved to be home, but the feeling was short lived. There is a war to fight, and as such the family is beginning to fracture off into pieces and head out on their own. 

Peter has ridden south with thousands of bannermen and is doing a systematic sweep along the western shore of the Riverlands. He plans to take out any and all Ironborn encampments before flanking the Tully bannermen and laying siege to Riverrun. Peter had always been a fierce fighter, but since the incident with the wildfire, he appears to have lost a large amount of remorse for his adversaries. Word has spread across the realms that he never allows any soldiers to be taken prisoner; the heads on spikes decorating his battlefields as a warning, do little to dispute these claims. 

In contrast, Derek is leading his own army of thousands, but doing so in silence. The rebels have either been unable to spot the roaming army, or he has seen it fit that any prying eyes were silenced immediately. As such his current whereabouts in the Riverlands is unknown, and the few who are aware of the plans are sworn to the utmost secrecy. The only whispers of the young wolf are tales constructed by frightened Rivermen; tales ranging from Derek’s ability to shift into a direwolf and tear out the throats of his enemies, or that he rides a giant direwolf into battle. 

Regardless of the rampant imagination used in these tales, Brandon Stark was pleased to hear that his son was as feared on the battlefield as he had hoped. He had originally held reservations towards allowing Derek to take a number of bannermen and their commanders under his control and march south, but apparently the gamble was paying off. 

Coordinating a war is not an easy venture. Many assume you simply throw some armour and swords at young men and send them on their way to glory; in reality war is game of strategy. Do you take the main roads in order to decrease your travel time, or do you send your troops through the fields in hopes of gaining an element of surprise. One has to decide where in the line of transportation they are going to place the food, medicine and armaments to ensure that they are not picked off by hostiles. Given the fighting style of an opponent, what is the best ratio of cavalry to pikemen to archers. One has to decide if it is better to keep their forces congested in one large battalion, or split their bannermen into quick moving columns. One also has to be able to determine what advantages and disadvantages the terrain, civilians and weather will impose on your marching army. In short, war is a throbbing headache. 

This is exactly why Brandon Stark currently finds himself nursing an umpteenth cup of wine whilst attending a meeting for the remaining members of his war council. Beside him sits his wife Talia and his daughter Cora, and before them are Deucalion Bolton and Alicia Mormont. 

“I am sure you have all heard about my brother’s successful campaign along the coast of the Riverlands,” Deucalion and Alicia nod in consent, “However, I am growing concerned over his escalating methods.” He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, “Lord Bolton, I need you and your brother to head south with a large number of bannermen and follow his exact trail. Make sure that no Ironborn are attempting to rebuild their destroyed encampments, and for the sake of my sanity, rendezvous with my brother and keep an eye on him.”

Deucalion gives a small smile and bows his head, “Of course my lord. It would be an honour to fight alongside him.” Brandon can’t help but raise his brows in response. Talia is fighting to keep a smile from her face, but lets out a small laugh when she sees the look of amusement on her husband’s face. 

“I don’t care what you do or who you are fighting, just keep Peter in line,” he says with a sigh. 

“I’ll gather my bannermen immediately my lord,” he says with a short bow and quickly strides out of the hall. 

Brandon turns his attention to Alicia Mormont, “I need you to take your fleet and patrol our western waters. We are sending all our troops south into the Riverlands and driving out the Ironborn from their lands, but we need to ensure that they don’t decide to travel further north.” 

Alicia gives a sharp smile in response, “It would be my honest pleasure my lord,” she says with a twirl of her axe. “I give you my word that I will not allow a single Ironborn onto our shores.” 

Brandon and Talia can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm, “We have the utmost faith in you and your bannermen,” Brandon says honestly. 

Alicia gives a sweeping bow and follows in Deucalion’s footsteps out of hall. Brandon releases a long sigh and sits back in his chair. “Hopefully we can end this war quickly. We may have tens of thousands of soldiers at our disposal, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy sending them into battle.” 

Talia nods her head, “Peter and Derek are making good progress, I imagine they will have the Riverlands tied up in a month or so,” she says encouragingly. 

Cora gives her parents a stormy look, “Things could get wrapped up a lot faster if you let me help,” she says sharply. 

Brandon rolls his eyes in response and gives his wife a long look. Talia looks upon Cora with exasperation, “We have already discussed this Cora. You are only ten and five, far too young to be on the frontlines.” 

Cora grits her teeth, “If Derek was ten and five you would still be letting him out onto a battlefield. The only reason I’m not allowed to is because you want me to be a perfect lady like Laura.” 

Brandon gives a derisive snort, “Derek could ride into battle in a gown and that would do nothing to change our opinion on the matter. The point is that he has the proper training, you do not.” 

Cora gives a frustrated yell and slams her hands down onto the table, “And whose fault is that,” she says bitterly before rising and storming out of the hall. 

Brandon drops his head to the table and Talia soothing rubs his hand along his shoulders whilst holding in a laugh. “War is easier than daughters,” he says with a pained groan.

### CASTERLY ROCK

On the far western shore of Westeros lies the realm of the Westerlands, ruled over by House Lannister. Geographically speaking, the majority of the Westerlands are rocky rolling hills, and despite limited agriculture, the land is abundant in ore for mining; more specifically, numerous prospering gold mines. 

Because of these vast valuable resources, the Lannister family has been successful in maintaining their power and have continued ruling the realm from their seat at Casterly Rock. Despite their impressive wealth and power, they have been the victims of numerous accusations over the years, which has led to a drop in their social standing. 

Claudia Lannister had been happily married to John Baratheon prior to her passing, however many believed this was a an attempt by the Lannisters to try and sink their claws into the Crown; despite all evidence to the contrary. Cerenna Lannister had married Peter Stark, a move many thought was an attempt to increase their presence in the North; the two vehemently refuted these claims, and said that their marriage was a happy one. However, their marriage came to end in the face of the Targaryen accusations that Cerenna had been having an illicit affair with her cousin Davyd. 

Her brother, and Lord of Casterly Rock, Parris Lannister had pleaded with her to save face and marry Davyd in hope of protecting her son Jackson from being declared a bastard in the face of the dissolved marriage. Because of his strained familial situation, Jackson has had a difficult upbringing and is often the source of many jokes throughout Westeros. 

He is forced to acknowledge Davyd as his father, but the man has no interest in raising him as his own, beyond the legal requirement. Because of this Jackson has essentially grown up without a father figure and has never had many limitations imposed on him. His mother has always doted on him and given him anything he has asked for; this has caused him to develop a jaded personality. 

The Lannisters are without a doubt the wealthiest family in Westeros, and thus Jackson has never understood the concept of not being able to acquire anything he desires. He is rich in the material sense, but he is poor in emotional development. He uses his wealth to acquire friends and because of this, the pool of people who actually care for him is quite shallow. The problem is that Jackson is aware of this, he knows that very few people actually care for him; unfortunately he is willing to accept this reality.

He is willing to throw gold at his problems and pay people off in hopes of gaining their favour, for however much time he can buy. His only true friend is Danny Martell, for he has never looked down upon Jackson for his questionable parentage. Jackson had once considered Lydia Tyrell to be the woman he would marry, but their relationship has become strained in recent years. She was willing to peruse both Scott Arryn and Stiles Baratheon in hopes of elevating her standing in the nine realms, something Jackson would be unable to do for her.

She may claim to care for him, but ultimately she is only interested in marrying into the wealthiest family in Westeros. But marrying an Arryn and controlling the impregnable Eyrie, or becoming queen of Westeros, those were things she desired. Jackson is not eligible to become heir to Casterly Rock, which will pass to his Uncle Parris’ children. Because of this perceived fault, Jackson recognizes that Lydia will only be interested in him as long as he remains the best option available. 

If she married him, she will never be the lady of Casterly Rock, her children will never have the status she desires. He doesn’t enjoy this harsh reality, but he understands it; he knows that he is a commodity that will one day lose its shiny golden veneer. As long as the Lannisters continue to shit gold, she will continue to give him the time of day. As soon as someone of a perceived higher standing expresses interest, well Jackson knows he will be thrown aside like the contents of a chamber pot. 

Unfortunately Jackson is unable to completely detach himself from Lydia. He knows that Westeros is at war, and that the Lannisters will be fighting the Tyrells, but she is still in some ways a close friend of his. He has confided in her, and he would be lying if he said that he doesn’t care about her safety. The problem is that his hands are tied in this scenario. Jackson is a Lannister, and he owes his allegiance to his House, not to a girl he had once planned to marry. 

He wasn’t called into the Lannister War Council meeting to be informed of his role in saving the Tyrell family, he was called in because he is going to be playing his part in destroying it. For all he knows, he will be tasked with killing the very Tyrell bannermen he used to spar with during his visits; or worse he could be tasked with dismantling the family from the inside, after all total war is the name of the game. 

He nervously shifts in his seat and anxiously taps his fingers against the table until Lord Brax stabs a knife down in between his fingers; Jackson becomes stock-still. 

“That is an annoying habit,” Lord Brax says with chastising tone. 

“My apologies,” Jackson says with a submissive duck of his head. This is his first time meeting with the commanders, he knows there is a time and place for posturing, and it isn’t this moment. 

Lord Brax gives a short chuckle, “Relax boy, you are a Lord Commander, same as me,” he says with a handclap to Jackson’s shoulder. 

Jackson spares him a small smile, “Just nervous. It isn’t every day I’m herded into a chamber and told what realm I am meant to be attacking.”  
A loud chorus of laughter from the surrounding lords startles Jackson and he looks up to see that his conversation with Lord Brax had been the focal point of the room. 

Davyd merely shakes his, “Don’t worry Jackson, we won’t be sending you out to conquer an entire realm just yet.” 

Jackson feels his face grow warm but he raises his jaw in insubordination. He may have to treat Davyd like his father, but the man will be hard pressed to find him cowering at his barbed words. 

“Then what will I be attacking,” Jackson asks in an airy voice. 

Davyd furrows his brow in annoyance, “You will be accompanying Lords Kenning, Farman and Westerling, as they lead our navy against that Greyjoys in open water.” Jackson releases a sigh of relief; he won’t be forced to attack the Tyrells. 

“Once the Greyjoys have been dealt with, and their navy is dead in the water, you will regroup with the rest on us in the Reach, and help in dismantling the Tyrells,” Davyd finishes.

“Why aren’t the Florents taking care of the Tyrells,” Jackson inquires. 

It is Lord Payne who answers, “The Florents are currently charged with supplying the necessary food required to feed our massive armies. Once we knock the Tyrells around, their bannermen will begin to change allegiance to the Florents.” 

“And once the Florents have at least half of the bannermen in the Reach at their side, they will join us in putting an end to the Tyrell dynasty,” Davyd finishes coolly. 

Lord Brax let’s out an amused snort, “And once Rhys Florent is involved, the Tyrells will fall in record time.” 

Jackson raises his brows and looks around at the faces of men in the room. He has heard stories of Rhys Florent, but he has never had the pleasure—or displeasure of meeting him. “I take it he is good commander then,” Jackson asks tentatively. 

“Not in the traditional sense,” Lord Payne scratches jaw a moment before continuing, “His methods aren’t pertaining to destroying an enemy on the battlefield. He is more concerned with allowing an army to destroy itself from the inside,” he finishes casually. 

Davyd gives a shake of his head, “That man is a cold-blooded killer.” 

Jackson gives an uneasy shrug, “At least he is our cold-blooded killer.” 

Davyd gives Jackson a rare smile in response, “Aye. I’ll toast to that.” In response the Lord Commanders around the table raises their cups of wine and toast to the success of the Lannister war effort; Jackson does the same. 

Jackson knows he isn’t one for strategy or mind games, but he is a capable leader and quite frankly he is going to get the job done. He will do what is asked of him and if that means he has to lead a number of naval battles against the Greyjoy fleet, then so be it. The Ironborn can wax on about paying the Ironprice as much as they like, at the end of the day it is Lannister gold that will send them down into the depths towards their waiting Drowned God.

### KING’S LANDING

While the rest of Westeros is preparing for possibility of invasion from hostile troops, the citizens of King’s Landing remain optimistic that they won’t be subjected to any sieges. The Targaryen attack on Rosby had been an attempt to provoke the Baratheons. They had hoped that by eliciting a Baratheon attack, they would be able to play the role of victim, and ultimately find more allies rallying to support their cause. Unfortunately for the Targaryens, the King is far too wise to fall for such a plan and has no interest in sending any man of the royal army into Targaryen land. 

Instead the King’s brother Lord Stannis Baratheon is sailing his impressive army north from the Stormlands to the Crownlands, and for the third time in his life, he is preparing to lay siege to the Targaryen forces. Whilst his brother happily leads a campaign against the Targaryens on their home front, the King is diligently spending all hours of the day locked away with the Small Council, ensuring that the least amount of economic and social damage will be inflicted upon the citizens of Westeros. 

The Prince however, has been for intents and purposes left to his own devices; a past time that has often ended badly. Stiles was currently seated on his bed within his own private chambers, surrounded by a mass of books, scrolls and torn pieces of parchment. An idea had made its way into the young prince’s mind, and he wasn’t going to let it leave until he had discovered every piece of information pertaining to ensuring its success. 

Stiles had originally wanted to attend the Targaryen/Stark wedding so he could simply escape the dull monotony of court; he had never expected to meet Derek Stark. Their meeting may have been purely by chance, but there was something about the northerner that Stiles found himself latching onto. 

Derek didn’t treat him like a Prince, he didn’t simper and bow or tiptoe around him out of fear. He insulted him, he made jokes at his expense, and don't even get him started on the kissing. Derek was different; Derek was something that Stiles needed to figure out. Stiles had gone in search of every piece of writing he could find on the Stark family and northern cultural practices—the fact that the majority of the writings had to do with marriage rights and ceremonies was purely coincidental. 

Stiles would be lying if he said he was not attracted to the northerner. The man was beautiful, and something about his cold personality seemed to compliment his own. Where Stiles was loud and brash, Derek was collected and calculating. Stiles needed to know everything about him, his family, his House, hells even the histories of the First Men in the North if it would provide some information on how to keep the man interested. 

Stiles had believed that Derek was willing to put some level of trust in him, after all he had helped the man look for his runaway sister on her wedding day, but he had apparently been wrong. All it took was one small accusation of treason for Derek to revert to a state of disinterest. Stiles has no interest in being bossed around, after all one day he will be king, he doesn’t want anyone thinking they can manipulate him like a puppet on a string. But it appears as though the heat of the moment outburst had done irrefutable damage. 

Derek now appears to be worried that Stiles will accuse him at treason whenever it suits his fancy, and simply throw him to the guards to be locked away in chains for crimes he never has, nor will he ever commit. This is something Stiles needs to fix, but he had no idea how. Derek obviously isn’t completely opposed to him, regardless of what he says. Derek had honestly been worried about his safety, and that is more than he can say about others in the past. 

Stiles had come up with a brilliant plan to apologize to the young wolf and thank him for his actions, but then Derek had left with his family. He had asked Boyd as to his whereabouts and discovered he had returned back to the North to call in the bannermen and prepare for war. However, in the recent days Stiles has had no news as to Derek’s whereabouts. Boyd says that no news is good news; it means that Derek is beyond the sight of Westeros’ many spies, and is successfully leading his campaign in the Riverlands. 

Despite these encouraging words Stiles has been unable to sleep. Instead he has taken to scouring any and all maps of the Riverlands and reading the history of famous battles that have taken place in the realm. If what Boyd said is true, then Derek is taking great care in planning out a smart campaign, and if Derek can stare at some maps and decide a course of action, then Stiles can stare at the same maps and hopefully come to the same conclusions. 

From what Stiles can tell either Derek or Peter will need to take the Twins. If any of the northern forces need to quickly cross the Trident, they need to be able to control the Green Fork River crossing. The Frey bannermen are at least 4,000 strong, a number that has Stiles’s stomach twisting in knots. Stiles starts digging through the pile of books in hopes of locating one on siege warfare; he hasn’t the slightest clue how one would even begin planning to attack the Twins, let alone with 4,000 bannermen inside of it. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, he releases a tired groan and angrily scrubs his hands over his face. 

“What are you still doing awake,” a voice asks, Stiles gives a surprised jump and looks up see his father staring back at him with tired eyes. 

Stiles gestures to the mass collection of reading material surrounding him, “Some late night reading, you know just trying to expand my horizons and all that.” 

His father raises and eyebrow and walks forward from the doorway to examine the books covering his son’s bed. He picks up one related to Heart Trees and raises a sceptical eyebrow, “Any particular reason you are expanding yourself towards northern marriage customs.”

Stiles gives a guilty shrug and tries to school his face into an expression of nonchalance, “Just curious,” he says casually. 

His father gives an amused snort in response, “Would this new found curiosity have anything to do with those maps of the Riverlands in front of you,” he asks dryly.

Stiles looks at his father with an expression of faux innocence, “Nope, just multitasking—you know how it goes. I was reading about trees and then developed a sudden interest in the agricultural land divisions within the Riverlands.”

His father raises his brow in scepticism, “Agricultural land divisions,” he says, Stiles adamantly nods his head in response. “So why exactly do you have a giant wolf drawn beside the Twins with name Derek written on it,” he asks casually. 

Stiles blanches, “Uhh… well there is a perfectly good explanation for that,” he finishes lamely. 

His father looks at him expectantly and after a few minutes of silence Stiles throws his hands in the air, “Fine! I was trying to figure out what the campaigns in the Riverlands are,” he waves his arms around in the air, “For resource management reasons or whatever,” he says with a huff. 

His father shakes his head and gives Stiles a small smile, “So this has nothing to do with the fact you keep bothering Boyd for information on Derek Stark every hour of the day.” Stiles groans and buries his face in his hands. 

“I just want him back here, so we can get some things sorted out,” he replies with a muffled voice. 

“And what things would that be,” his father asks in a curious tone. 

Stiles takes a deep breath and gives a small grimace, “We want a betrothal,” he says with as much courage as he can muster. 

His father gives a groan in response, “I am far too sober for this conversation,” he says before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do the two of you not realize we are in the middle of a war right now.”

Stiles waves his hands at his father in a complacent gesture, “Just wait—hear me out for a second. I understand that the timing is shit, but the good out weights the bad. There would be a formal alliance between House Baratheon and House Stark, and this is a match I am not completely opposed to.”

“Are you sure this isn’t another passing infatuation, like what happened with the Tyrell girl. A few years ago you were saying how madly in love with her you were,” his father asks with a cautious tone. 

Stiles furrows his brow out of annoyance, “Lydia was… Lydia was an idea; I was in love with the idea of her. Derek though, Derek is different. Something about him has gotten under my skin, and I can’t stop thinking about him,” he finishes quietly. 

His father gives him a pitying look, “I am happy that you have found someone you feel is worthy of you, but that doesn’t change the current situation.” 

Stiles’ eyes widen, “You are the King of Westeros, can’t you just order him to King’s Landing,” Stiles argues indignantly. 

His father gives a long suffering sigh, “No Stiles, I can’t just order Derek to abandon his campaign and his men, so he can ride to King’s Landing for a wedding.” 

Stiles clenches his jaw but eventually releases a defeated sigh, “Fine. Once Derek has finished his campaign in the Riverlands, then will you send a raven for him,” he asks in an even voice.

His father nods absently, “Yes. Once Derek has done his duty to the Crown and helped us win the war against the Taragryens, you two can sort out your business. If that means a wedding, then so be it.”

Stiles’ face lights up with a blinding smile and he leaps off the bed to hug his father. “You have no idea how much I owe you right now,” he exclaims. 

His father breaks the hug and kisses the crown of his son’s head before heading towards the door. “I’m just glad you have finally begun to take your duties as prince seriously… your mother would be proud,” he says quietly before exiting the room and closing the door behind him. 

Stiles gives a wince at his father’s words; that was a low blow. Stiles is willing to admit that he hasn’t always shown interest in the politics of Westeros, but he isn’t an idiot, he knows how these things work. This situation with Derek is something he can make succeed. Sure the kingdom is at war, people are dying and Derek is who knows where in the Riverlands, but Stiles could make this work. 

He knows that Derek had been on board with asking his father for a betrothal, and despite their minor setback, Derek didn’t specifically ask to have his previous statement revoked. Therefore, Stiles sees no reason why Derek wouldn’t be willing to go ahead with a betrothal. Sure, he will probably need a little convincing or a few heartfelt oaths sworn before a tree in order to soothe his worries, but Stiles can handle that; Stiles can make this work. 

Derek will finish up his campaign in the Riverlands, the mad dragon will be put down, and then Derek will come back to King’s Landing so they can get married. Derek had been right in his first impression; they were good together, they should be together. He isn’t going to let some silly misunderstanding take Derek away from him; he is in far too deep to allow that to happen.

### THE GREEN FORK

In the early hours of the morning, under a blanket of darkness, Lord Commander Derek Hale was currently leading a small army of 6,000 strong just off of the King’s Road through the Riverlands; his destination, the Frey bannermen, who en route to the Twins, are encamped along the Green Fork River. The Starks had hoped that the Riverlands would side with the Crown, unfortunately following the quick marriage between Christophe Targaryen and Victoria Tully, the Tullys and their bannermen had declared their allegiance with the rebel faction. 

This is Derek’s first taste of war, and he would be lying if he didn’t hope it was his last. Derek’s first battle had come at Greywater Watch, the seat of House Reed in the North. House Reed is loyal to the Starks, and as such Derek was marching south with his acquired troops to rendezvous with them, prior to invading the Riverlands. When he arrived, he expected to be greeted by thousands of bannermen flying the House Reed banner, a black lion-lizard on a green field. Instead he found Greywater Watch to be under siege from the invading Ironborn. 

Luckily the Ironborn were not able to effectively lay siege to Greywater Watch, as the unfamiliar bogs and marshes of the surrounded area, were near impossible for them to effectively breach. Derek quickly and successfully manoeuvred his then 4,000 bannermen into formation and aided the Reed bannermen in forcing the Ironborn to pullback and retreat. Derek had secured a resounding victory for his first battle as a Lord Commander. 

It is because of this first victory that Derek is now feeling quite capable in his new position, and is ultimately looking forward to incorporating a large number of Arryn bannermen under his command. He has heard quite a bit about Lord Scott Arryn, mainly his inability to heed the instructions of others. However, Derek is certain that he will be able to mentor the young lord and teach him the proper signals and strategies used by the northerners. 

Derek had expected Rafael Arryn to remain neutral in the face of the growing war, but due to Scott insistence of a betrothal between himself and Allison Targaryen, he was forced to save face and pledge support to the Crown. Thus, a number of Arryn bannermen marched on the Riverlands in order to join forces with the Starks. Scott was originally meant to accompany Peter in his campaign along the western shores, but his uncle had refused to deal with the stubborn boy. His father had been forced to comply when Peter said that should the boy voice a single complaint, he would shove a hand down the boy’s throat and remove his larynx through his teeth. 

Because of his uncle’s limited patience in the face of insubordination, Derek was now forced into the position of not only teaching, but also constraining the will of the young lord. Derek had spent the better part of the day attempting to teach the boy about how to take stock of the logistics involved in siege warfare, and how to plan an effective strategy in response; however he doubts more than two words had registered within the boy’s mind. 

For his mind was already full of no more than love for Allison Targaryen, and hate for the Starks. Apparently Scott blamed the Starks for the war, and the amounting animosity towards the Targaryens; regardless of how many times Derek reminds him of the course of events. Derek had attempted to reason with him but to no avail. He tried telling Scott that they were brothers in arms now; Scott had scoffed at the idea. He had tried telling Scott that he could teach him valuable skills; Scott said he would learn from someone else. Scott had finally told Derek that he had nothing of value to offer; Derek told him flat out that he needs him and his bannermen to make it back to Allison alive. Scott refused to voice a response but he grudgingly dropped the conversation and rode back to his bannermen effectively leaving Derek alone at the head of the marching army. 

Derek is hoping that after leading his growing forces in a solid defeat over the Frey bannermen, and capturing the strategic river crossing at the Twins, Scott will be willing to listen to him and not question his commands. Derek plans to send a small force of men north of the Frey encampment in hopes of drawing out their commanders, once the commanders take the bait, the Stark and Arryn bannermen will surround them and take them captive; essentially scattering the Frey bannermen and allowing them to be easily hunted down. 

Scott had sent Arryn scouts ahead earlier in the day to relay the exact location of the Frey encampment, and Derek sees no pressing reason for this strategy of his to fail. The Frey bannermen will scatter, the commanders will be hostages, and Derek will take the Green Fork crossing at the Twins; today he will make his family proud. 

It isn’t until they reach the location of the supposed encampment that Derek begins to panic; there is evidence that the Frey men were once here, but not anymore. Scott had assured Derek that there was no reason the plan wouldn’t go off without a hitch, Derek fails to understand how that could possibly happen now. It is when Derek hears the tell tale sound of an arrow flying past his ear, that he understands what has truly happened. 

Scott has taken his plan and through the scouts he gave it to the Frey bannermen. The Arryn soldiers aren’t fighting for him, they are here to help surround him and his men. Derek quickly cues Camaro into a gallop towards his commanders, hoping there are still within the marching formation. 

When he comes upon them he quickly reins Camaro to a halt, “Split into your columns, take your bannermen and go west as quickly as possibly. Try to rendezvous with either my uncle or Deucalion Bolton,” he orders in a shaky tone.

“What the fuck is going on,” Lord Karstark asks, the confusion and anger evident in his tone.

“We’ve been betrayed by the Arryn men, they are fighting alongside the rebels,” Derek says solemnly. The eyes of his commanders widen in shock. 

“I think they are using our own plan, so get your men and go before this becomes a slaughter,” Derek commands with as much authority in his voice as he can project. 

The commanders nod their heads and quickly spur their horses back yelling out orders to their confused bannermen. Derek cues Camaro into a gallop in hopes of finding Scott Arryn; he refuses to let the boy escape without facing punishment for this betrayal. 

Derek understands that Scott is young and naïve; and that he doesn’t understand the concept of total war. The foot soldiers are not the people responsible for starting the conflict, but sometimes they are the individuals who die. Derek needs to ensure the safety of his family, his people and of course the Crown; if that means he will have to kill seemingly innocent people, then so be it. Scott apparently does not share the same philosophy, if this badly constructed attempt at an ambush is any indication. None of the archers are shooting to kill, and Derek can’t help but wonder if the boy honestly think the Frey men will allow for thousands of hostiles to be taken as prisoners. 

Derek has Camaro in a flat out gallop alongside the Green Fork when he sees Scott and his commanders back in a thicket. He prepares to cue Camaro towards them when he suddenly feels all the air empty from his lungs. His world begins to spin as he falls from Camaro’s back and straight into the freezing Green Fork River, his armour speeding up the descent. The sudden submerging into the river runs through his body like an electric shock to his system. It is as though thousands of needles are repeatedly stabbing at his exposed flesh, and Derek feels himself gasping for air in response; he only receives a mouthful of water for his efforts. He struggles to remove his heavy armour but is unable to coordinate his numbing limbs and continues to sink lower towards the riverbed. Darkness is beginning to creep into his blurring vision, and the last thing he can focus his eyes on, are three crossbow bolts lodged into the breastplate of his armour.


	10. The men holding those bolts of cloth will make me king

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Dramatic bloody battles will be popping up starting next chapter, embrace the onslaught of impending death.
> 
> II. Comments are always appreciated. I like to see your guesses as to where the plots are going.
> 
> III. Also I know it is slow getting all these different character POVs introduced, but my goal is to not really have background relationships. I want all the "main TW cast characters" to get their development, get their story and have things seen from their eyes.

### THE TWINS

Despite the ongoing war in the Riverlands, the fortification at the Twins remained eerily quiet. House Frey had chosen to call in their bannermen and was expecting them to arrive within the day, effectively preparing for any future sieges. The Twins has never fallen to any besieging enemies, a fact that easily soothes the worries of its residents. 

However, there is one individual present at the Twins that is not comforted by their surroundings, one Erica Greyjoy. The Twins is a long ways away from the Iron Island and everyone knows Ironborn do not survive a long away from the shore. 

Life on the Iron Islands had never been full of luxuries; it had been a hard life, but a life she missed all the same. Erica had spent her entire life suffering from an unfortunate illness, an illness that left her body operating a level below those around her. As a result she was forced to harden up and embrace the Ironborn way of life. 

Erica had worked hard to be recognized as a respected leader of her men, and despite the limitations placed on her by her health, she was willing to attempt any obstacle thrown in front of her. Erica was a true Ironborn, and she did not cower in the face of a challenge.

But now that she finds herself so far from home, her resolve is beginning to crack. The Iron Island will never be described as a hospitable place to live, but one learns how to survive within the limited conditions. Erica would rather live on that shit pile of rocks than in the Riverlands any day of her life. She had rightfully earned respect on the Iron Islands, but here at the Twins no one gave her the time of day. She heard every awful thing whispered about her: she was a bargaining chip; she was weak; damaged goods; as useless and infertile as the rocks she came from. 

The Rivermen were awful, and the Frey brothers themselves were anything but spectacular. Everyone is Westeros knew about the Red Wedding and how the two of them had been responsible for the deaths of their family members; Erica doesn’t even want to consider what fate they have outlined for her. She knows that she needs to find a way out, however her options are limited.

Erica knows that returning home isn’t an option, after all her father had all but thrown her onto the ship himself. Her brother Camden was a good little soldier who very rarely defied their father; she would never be able to sway him to her side. Camden may disagree with her forced betrothal, but he would never publicly speak out against it in opposition. Isaac was always a wild card, some days the she and him were practically attached; on others he would be completely indifferent to her plights. Isaac’s interests are fleeting and self-motivated; more so since he has grown attached to Matt, their bastard brother.

Matt, well Matt was another issue in entirety. The boy grew up taking more beatings than Isaac and herself combined, but that is the life of a bastard, let alone an Ironborn. In recent months Erica has seen him spending less time alone, and more with her brother Isaac. The topics of their secret meetings, she does not know. However, she does know that it is rare for Isaac to keep any of his secrets from her, and that makes the situation even more worrisome. 

Erica believes that whatever Isaac and Matt are planning, is something that is far beyond their scope, and will ultimately reap them negative consequences. She is not against plotting to ameliorate one’s situation, but she understands her limitations. Isaac prefers to jump into everything feet first, and later discover just how deep he has to sink. Erica desperately wants to protect her brother, but at this point she recognizes that she needs to focus on herself. 

If she is going to escape from the Twins, she needs to find an ally that has as much to benefit from their current situation as she does, and that is a tall order. The Frey bannermen were willing to kill the man they had pledged fealty to, simply because Aiden and Ethan promised them riches from the Reach. Erica does not posses the wealth necessary to buy the loyalty of 4,000 bannermen. 

Aiden and Ethan themselves are completely out of the question, after all there are as mad as rabid hounds. Consider it was their doing by which she found herself in the Riverlands, she has no doubt that they would be less than willing to release her form her father’s oath. As long as she remains at the Twins, House Frey will have Ironborn soldiers at their disposal, what they plan to do with them in the face of total war is a mystery at best. 

Jennifer, the vomit-inducing bitch, was an even less likely ally. Erica could tell from their first meeting that she was not someone to be trusted. The woman is clever, and quite capable in playing a role that hid her true colours. It is true that she had been attacked and disfigured by Kali Martell, but Jennifer is anything but a broken victim; the woman is dangerous. Erica knows she needs to be careful around her because if anyone will figure out what she is planning, it will be Jennifer. 

Erica had found it quite difficult to get any alone time during her brief habitation of the Twins; Jennifer seemed keen on keeping a hand maiden by her side at all times, naturally to spy on her. Even so, there is no reason for Jennifer to be watching her so intently, Erica knows there is currently no way for her to escape unscathed. She may have only been here for little over a week, but she has already run through every hypothetical scenario with little to no success. She doesn’t need a plan where she will escape the fortress only to be rounded up within hours, she needs a plan where we she can run to a new home and remain there. 

Erica takes a deep breath and looks out upon the Green Fork in front of her; she is willing to run anywhere, as long as she gets far away from here. She doesn’t have a plan as to where she will go; at this point in time it is difficult to find a place the war will not touch. Ultimately, her best option is to run towards King’s Landing and beg for pardon from the King. Her father has already thrown her to wolves by sending her off to the Riverlands, at this point she retains no loyalty to her House. Bending the knee to the King would not be a hardship; in contrast it would be a welcomed change. 

Her thoughts of escape are interrupted by the approaching figure of Jennifer Frey, a truly abysmal sight in the afternoon light. Erica has no interest in provoking her ire, and as such seems to find herself the quiet party in numerous one-sided conversations. 

“Sister”, Jennifer calls out with a cheery smile upon her face. 

Erica attempts a smile, but it fails to reach her eyes. She has no doubt that whatever expression she currently wears, is far from the well-schooled mask of innocence that Jennifer often wears. “We are not sisters quite yet,” Erica mockingly chastises, a tone of faux amusement in her voice. 

Jennifer gives an amused giggle and sits down next to Erica on the bridge, and takes her hands within her own before speaking, “We will be sisters soon enough, no need to postpone the inevitable.” 

Erica spends each day praying to every God she can fathom that Ethan Frey will die in this war, long before they can be wed. She has no desire to be shackled to a man because he was interested in her father’s soldiers, she wants to marry a man because he is truly interested in her. She gives Jennifer a nervous smile, “I can barely contain my excitement. It is truly an honour to marry into such an impressive House,” she says evenly. 

Jennifer frowns and soothing rubs her thumbs over the backs of Erica’s hands. “Everyone is nervous before their wedding, and you will be no different. You just need a little help becoming accustomed to your new status,” she finishes in a calming voice. 

Erica arches a brow in interest, “New status,” she asks carefully. 

Jennifer gives a sharp laugh, “You are no longer a woman of the Iron Islands, you are a true lady of the Riverlands, and you need to embrace your future as such.” Jennifer takes in Erica’s appearance before her and tuts disapprovingly. “The first thing we need to do is get you out of those enormous grey rags and into a dress suited to someone of your standing.” 

Erica takes a moment to look down at her appearance and frowns, “I am still an Ironborn, regardless of whom I marry.”

“You may be an Ironborn, but you won’t be spending the rest of your life struggling to survive on those barren rocks. There is no need for you to dress in that mass of cloth anymore,” Jennifer says with an encouraging smile. 

Jennifer stands and through their joined hands, carefully pulls Erica to her feet, “Come with me, I am sure we can find you something suitable,” she says before leading the way back towards the eastern tower. 

Erica can’t help but submissively follow in Jennifer’s stead. She knows that every interaction they have is either a stepping stone towards a tentative peace, or another step back towards a steep ledge; she needs to pick her battles carefully, and she isn’t about to take up arms over her state of dress. 

“How long did it take for you to call this place home,” Erica asks quietly. 

“Oh I found myself growing quite attached—” Jennifer’s answer is abruptly cut off by the sound of a horn. Both women stop and glance to the horizon in hopes of establishing the source of the interruption. To Erica’s dismay, she sees the 4,000 Frey bannermen marching towards the Twins, and the men appear to be in very good spirits. 

Jennifer furrows her brow and point towards to middle of the formation, “It appears as though they have brought a guest with them,” she says with excitedly. 

Erica follows her direction and lays eyes upon a bound man being shoved along by the surrounding soldiers, every few steps he receives an enthusiastic shove and falls forward to his knees into the mud, much to the amusement of the Frey men. 

“Who is he,” Erica inquires. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea, but I am going to be gracious host and find out,” Jennifer says with a large smile. “Now come along, we need to have you looking proper before we greet our guest.”

Erica reluctantly pulls her gaze away from the captive man and continues to follow after Jennifer. She doesn’t know whom he is, but if he is also a prisoner, he may just be the ally she has been searching for.

### DRAGONSTONE

Within the fortress of Dragonstone there is the Chamber of the Painted Table. It is located above the Stone Drum keep, round in shape and has floor to ceiling windows overlooking all surrounding directions. Within the center of the room is a large table that has been carved and painted to form a detailed map of Westeros. The table itself is more than fifty feet long and at it’s widest almost twenty-five feet wide. Positioned at Dragonstone’s location is a raised seat that allows Gerard Argent to overlook the entire map before him. 

It is within this chamber that Allison Argent is currently seated alongside her father, mother and brother, revising the war strategy of the Targaryen rebellion. The rebellion had taken the name of her House, but Allison did not feel the representation was necessary. The rebellion was for everyone who wanted to protect themselves from the dangerous forces within Westeros, the Taragryens were merely one of the families involved. 

Allison had come into this naïve and uniformed, but with the urging from her sister Kate, she found herself included within the family discussions. She had witness her brother wed Victoria Tully in order to ensure the support of the Riverlands. She had seen Kate manipulate multiple Greyjoys and Tyrells to suit her needs. Allison was prepared to arm herself and fight in battle, but she wasn’t prepared engage in social warfare. 

She knows how to fire her bow to ensure that her targets do not take another breath, what she doesn’t know is how to separate her emotions from her actions. Lydia was the first person willing to befriend a daughter of the often-described mad dragon, and yet Allison had used her to her benefit. She was still wrought with guilt each and every night when she would try to clear her mind and sleep. 

Worse yet, Scott had refused to separate himself from the conflict. Allison understands his desire to protect her, but she wishes that he would consider himself and his family before hers, after all that is what she is doing. It is impossible for her to deny the love she feels for Scott, but she knows that her duty is first and foremost to her family. 

Every family has their negative attributes, and Allison knows her family is no different, but she plans to follow their orders into battle regardless. The people sitting around this table are her family, they are the people who raised her and looked out for her, she is not going to turn her back on them now. Allison used to play in the Chamber of the Painted Table as a child, she never thought that one day she would be sitting here watching her parents move pieces around the map, planning the best way to kill their adversaries. 

Allison watches her father move a number of Greyjoy and Tully pieces into play behind Kate’s figurine, “When is Kate coming home,” Allison asks quietly. 

Gerard looks up the table and shifts his gaze towards Allison, “She will come home once she has put down all of the direwolves running around unchecked,” he says with a sneer. 

Allison nods her head and chances a glance at her brother. Allison knows Chris had taken Laura’s attack badly, even if he had agreed to marry Victoria without a single protest. Chris understood the necessity to follow orders, just like she did. Her brother appears to pale at the mention of Kate alone in the Riverlands, a sentiment Allison shares. 

If it was up to her, the entirety of her family would be home and safe from harm. Unfortunately, that is not an option. “Where will I be positioned,” Allison asks tentatively. 

Chris immediately interjects, “You are too young for the frontlines,” he says quickly. 

“No she isn’t,” Gerard chastises. “She will be joining her sister in the Riverlands, it will be a good learning experience for her. Kate is an experienced commander, Allison would benefit from her leadership.” 

“Send her with me, I’ll look after her,” Chris implores. 

“I am the head of House Targaryen, I give the orders, not you,” Gerard angrily yells towards his son. 

Chris clenches his jaw but ducks his head in submission, “My apologies father,” he says tightly. 

Allison would much rather follow her brother than her sister, her and Chris have always share similar ideologies Kate has always been a wild card. Chris and Kate are bonded incredibly close, and Allison does not deny that she loves Kate with all her heart, but Kate is a radical. Kate is willing to watch everyone burn, so long as she is proclaimed the victor. In contrast Chris is concerned with fulfilling his missions, but he prefers to limit the causalities. Allison wants to believe that she is similar to her brother, but then again she has yet to set foot on a battlefield. 

Alexander clears his throat in an attempt to dissolve the amounting tension, “Allison will join Kate in the Riverlands, and you Christophe will travel to the Reach and aid the Tyrells in limiting deserters to the Florent cause.” 

“What bannermen are to accompany me,” Chris asks evenly. 

Gerard gives an unimpressed snort, “You will take no bannermen with you, as you do not require them. Or do you feel that you are not an adequate enough commander to control the Tyrell bannermen,” he asks sharply. 

Allison can see her brother grinding his teeth, but she knows that he won’t speak out against their father, even when provoked. 

Chris gives a harsh jerk of his head to signify his competency as a leader. “No, I assure you that I am capable of leading the Tyrell bannermen, I will see to it that the Florent uprising is crushed. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

“You will leave now,” Gerard commands. 

Chris furrows his brow in anger but after a moment he rises from his seat. He gives a short bow to both his parents and quickly makes his way towards the door. When he nears Allison he hesitates and crouches down to give her a constricting hug. 

“Be careful, and come back alive,” he whispers. 

Allison can feel tears threatening to fall from her eyes in the face of her brother’s rare display of attachment. “I’ll have my bow, I can take care of myself,” she replies in a shaky voice. 

Chris leans back and gives her a warm smile as he wipes a stray tear from her cheek, “Arrows aren’t infinite Ally, and this is war not a practice range.” 

Allison gives a small nod and leans forward to once again hug her brother. She doesn’t know when she will see him next, and if he will still be the same person she is saying goodbye to. Allison imagines that the same though is running through he brother’s mind as he looks upon her. After a long moment he slowly pulls back and continues to stride his way out of the chamber. 

The chamber remains silent until Alexander speaks up, “Allison dear, you should go prepare your things. You will be heading out to join your sister first thing in the morning.” 

Allison tries to give her parents a reassuring smile but she knows the worry is bleeding through her features. She had always known she would make an excellent military commander, but she never thought the opportunity would arise at such a young age. She had been training with the bow since she was a child, but even now at ten and seven, she is aware that there is still much to learn. She can only hope that under the guidance of her sister Kate, she will be able to gain the much-needed experience that will allow her to dance around the God of Death.

### KING’S LANDING

It had been over a week since Stiles had last heard so much as a whisper of Derek’s last known whereabouts; apparently he had led his troops to resounding victory at Greywater Watch. But since Boyd had been willing to divulge this piece of information, Stiles had heard no further words, and as a result had begun to grow restless. He does understand the necessity for secrecy in these types of operations, but there is no reason for Derek to be completely undetectable. 

To make matters worse it appears as though his father had misinterpreted his interest in the ongoing war. Yes, Stiles spent the majority of his day asking Boyd for updates on the Riverlands, and pouring over maps and books on military strategy; but frankly fuck the war, he just wants to find Derek. Instead, his father has decided that in a few days he will be riding out with his uncle Stannis in order to ‘better understand the complexity of military strategic systems’, Stiles has yet to completely understand the meaning behind the words. 

Stiles has no idea what his uncle is going to be able to teach him, but maybe he will be able to get something out of it. With any luck his uncle Stannis will live up to his reputation, and together they will tear through the Crownlands and end this stupid war in record time. Frankly Stiles is sick of dealing with Targaryen bullshit at this point. First his very enjoyable alone time with Derek was interrupted; then the assholes had to go and refuse to attend the trial; they arguably burnt down Rosby; and now the cunts are rampaging around the Riverlands and the Reach. Stiles finally understands why people say his Uncle Stannis never smiles; if he had spent as many years as him dealing with the Targaryens, he would also find smiling to be an unnecessary chore. 

If Stiles is going to be forced to leave King’s Landing for an undisclosed amount of time, he is going to be forced to set aside all the research he has done on the Riverlands and the Starks. He knows he is far from a military genius, but he has made excellent progress in breaking apart the most logical strategies that the Starks would be relying upon. Unfortunately, his newly acquired, an arguably impressive knowledge of the Riverlands, is going to do little to impress his uncle in the Crownlands. 

Stiles knows that he needs a new plan, but quite frankly at this point he is out of ideas. It doesn’t matter how much research he has done relative to the Riverlands, if Derek or Peter aren’t going to pop up and validate his theories. He has spent his time focusing on them; the Targaryens are something he is completely unprepared for. He knows the basics about the family: kill everything with fire, a dash of incestuous undertones and top it off with a whole lot of crazy. 

He is willing to admit that he needs more information, and unfortunately the only way to get the information he requires, is by attending a monotonous small council meeting. He had spent the better part of the morning trying to think up a better way or procuring knowledge pertaining to the Targaryens, but unfortunately he was unsuccessful. Because of this ongoing internal debate, he is well overdue for the start of meeting—but feels it should be acknowledged he has chosen to take the plunge either way. 

His attempt at quietly sneaking into the Small Council chamber was a resounding failure, the door giving a loud high pitch squealing as he pushed it open. Stiles contorts his face into a dramatic grimace and tries to casually slink to an open seat, despite all attending members staring at him openly. His father releases an unimpressed sigh before turning back towards Parris Lannister. 

“I’m not overly fond of the idea,” the King says. 

“I understand your Grace, but I fear my presence is needed in the west,” Parris says evenly. “I would like to appoint Doran Martell as acting Hand whilst I am away.” 

Lady Graeme looks on with honest surprise, “He is willing to get involved in this mess,” she asks quietly. 

Parris nods in acquiesce, “He seemed receptive to the idea, as long as his son Prince Danny is able to accompany to the capital. He felt it would do him well to become acquainted with the politics of the other realms.”

Stiles can’t help but release a snort of amusement. “Acquainted? Danny probably has access to more eyes scanning the happenings of Westeros, than our own Master of Whisperers.” 

Boyd gives Stiles a sceptical look, “Doubtful,” he says dryly. 

“Oh really,” Stiles says with a cock his brow, “I bet Danny could tell me where Derek is,” he finishes with a bite in his tone. 

Boyd’s expression grows stony, “I know where Lord Commander Stark is. I just happen to work for your father not you.” 

Stiles’ jaw drops and flicker his gaze between Boyd and his father. An expression of pure betrayal covers his face and he quickly rises from his seat, his chair being shoved back and knocked to the ground. “What do you mean you know where he is,” he asks through clenched teeth. 

None of the individuals at the table dignify his outburst with an answer, not even his father. Stiles is furious, and he feels he has every right to be. He has been asking every one of the council members if they knew where Derek was, and he had been brushed off all week. His father had previously agreed to Derek and he pursuing a betrothal; there is no reason to keep him in the dark as to his whereabouts. 

“Do you, or do you not know where he is,” he grits out. 

“I do,” the King quietly replies.

Stiles clenches his hands into fists and bangs them down upon the table in anger. “Then why the fuck won’t anyone tell me,” he yells at his father. 

His father releases a long sigh and looks upon Stiles with pity, “It is a delicate situation Stiles, and it needs to be handled appropriately.” 

A look of panic fleets across Stiles’ face, “What happened to him,” he whispers. 

The King spares a glance at Boyd, “There are varying accounts I’m afraid,” he says before once again looking at his son.

Stiles anxiously scrubs his hands over his face and takes a shaky breath. He had assumed no one was telling him anything because there was no information to disclose, but knowing that Derek had gotten himself into some kind of situation makes everything that much worse. Derek obviously isn’t dead, or else his father would have told him that. If he was withholding information because of a ‘delicate situation’, there must be something serious going on; a scary thought given the nature of the war. 

“Please,” Stiles asks in a desperate tone. 

Boyd takes pity on him first, “Lord Commander Stark’s bannermen are all divided and headed west towards Lord Peter Stark’s location at an incredibly quick pace. The Arryn troops who were accompanying them have all but disappeared,” he says slowly. 

That was not what Stiles had been expecting. He had heard nothing but good things about Derek’s military strategy, there is no reason for him and his bannermen to be running west away from the Twins. As for the missing Arryn bannermen, one has to assume that means Scott was missing alongside them. Scott and himself may not be brothers in blood, but the two of them have grown to be good friends due to their fathers’ tentative alliance. 

“Scott is missing, and Derek is fleeing west,” he asks tentatively.

Boyd shakes his head and gives Stiles a pitying look, “I’m afraid you misunderstood my words. I said Lord Commander Stark’s bannermen were headed west, not him. Also the Arryn bannermen aren’t so much missing, as having relocated themselves.” 

Stiles’ eyes widen and he quickly looks towards his father for confirmation. 

“It appears as though the Arryn bannermen have regrouped themselves alongside Targaryen forces in the Riverlands, and that is why we can no longer pin down their exact location,” his father replies. 

Stiles can’t believe what he is hearing; Scott is like a brother to him, he refuses to believe that Scott would betray his father and side with the Targaryens. He knows that in recent months Scott has become absolutely enamoured with Allison Targaryen, but Scott wouldn’t throw aside his allegiance to the Crown in order to protect a girl he barely knows. If Scott was willing to do such a thing, that would mean he is willing to support the men who want to end his father’s life, he is willing to support the men who want to kill his family over some stupid uncomfortable iron monstrosity. If he was willing to support the men who want his father dead, then maybe he was willing to proclaim an order for Derek’s death. 

“Scott betrayed us,” he says icily. His father gives a harsh wince and downs the remainder of his wine in response. 

“My sources within the Stark troops claim that the Arryn bannermen were never loyal to their Stark commander, and instead were working alongside the rebels,” Boyd calmly states. 

Scott apparently never had any interest in supporting the Starks. He can understand that Scott may be wary of supporting the family that is feuding with his supposed paramour’s, but this is inexcusable. Stiles was there that day at Dragonstone, he knows that the Starks are an innocent family and that Derek is an innocent man; he knows that this betrayal at Scott’s command needs to be dealt with in time. 

“If the northern troops are all headed west, why isn’t Derek with them,” Stiles inquires. 

Boyd takes a moment to carefully choose his words before responding, “The Stark bannermen do not know where their Lord Commander is; we have not received any ravens from House Arryn or House Targaryen, and as such we currently believe Lord Commander Stark to either be dead or a hostage of some Rivermen.” 

“Dead… ” Stiles says with a crack in a voice. 

“Or a hostage,” his father interjects, “But…if that is the case we do not know his current condition, and won’t until someone contacts us.” 

“Maybe we haven’t received any ravens from House Targaryen because they are content to just burn him to ash and be done with him,” he yells in outrage. Stiles spins around and angrily kicks his overturned chair before storming out of the chamber and into the throne room. He doesn’t make it far before he hears the tell tale sounds of running footsteps behind him. 

“Stiles wait,” Parris calls out.

Stiles doesn’t want to wait for anything ever again; he didn’t want to wait, and now he may have lost Derek forever. He may never have the chance to truly get to know the man who has captured his attention. He may have to spend his life in a loveless marriage of convenience instead of with one he desires. Stiles is heartbroken and outraged; he wants retribution for these slights. He doesn’t want to stop and talk, he wants to put every Targaryen’s head on a spike outside these city walls. 

The choice is removed from his hands when his uncle quickly closes the distance and wraps his arms tightly around him, effectively hindering his escape. “I know this hurts, I know that you think the world is ending, but I am telling you that you will be alright,” his uncle implores. 

“They need to pay for what they did,” Stiles says through a choked voice. “Every single one them, anyone who isn’t us.”

“And they will. I promise you they will,” his uncle urges. 

Stiles slowly turns in his uncle’s arms to look him in the eye, “I want every Targaryen head on a spike, and I want Scott Arryn in chains,” he says with a snarl. 

A proud look finds its way to Parris’ face, “I agree, we will show them what happens when one betrays the King of the Westeros. We can’t let allow dissention to rise up within our ranks and harass our troops with impunity. We will end up looking like fools and in turn they will be heralded as heroes by the rebels.”

Stiles gives his uncle a sharp smile in response, “I may be a Baratheon by name, but I also carry Lannister blood, and Scott Arryn needs to be reminded that Lannisters always pay their debts.”


	11. When the cold winds rise, we shall live or die together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Comments make me love you forever
> 
> II. An ENORMOUS thank you to the like 30 of you who are actively reading this fic, I am honestly just stoked that at least one person likes it, let alone a few of you. I know WIPs are a pain in the ass, but I love the fact some of you are willing to read this despite it being far from completed. 
> 
> III. Also... unfortunately season 4 of TW will start eventually, if some the of new characters don't totally suck major balls, do you guys want me to update the character list and work them in? Or just throw them in randomly in a shout out?

### THE TWINS

Derek had always believed he held a high tolerance for pain, but what he was currently experiencing, was quite possibly the seventh hell. He had been hauled out of the Green Fork by the Frey bannermen, and his life had been anything but pleasant since. 

Derek was thankful that the crossbow bolts that had pierced his armour were only able to inflict minimal damage upon his torso; had they managed to increase their depth up to another inch, he would have died within the hour. 

Instead the Gods had smiled upon Derek and chosen to let him live for many more days; but in a cruel twist the days had been filled with agonizing torture. Throughout the journey from the failed ambush at the Green Fork, to the Twins crossing, Derek had been subjected to the whims of the Frey bannermen. 

His right shoulder, arm and across his abdomen had been repeatedly sliced open by numerous vindictive captors, many of these deep cuts now having become infected. Derek had been dragged from encampment to encampment with his wounds festering, receiving little to no food or water. He had hoped they would want him alive to trade; apparently they viewed his bones to be as valuable as his breathing form. 

He had hoped that once he had been dragged to the Twins, he would have been thrown into a proper cell, instead the men mocked him, threw him into a makeshift cage and called him a mongrel wolf. A large metal collar had been shackled around his neck, effectively rubbing raw the skin below. His arms were pulled taught behind his back and secured in chains to a large post, prohibiting him from any attempts at orchestrating an escape. The Rivermen called him a mindless beast, and as such they have left him sitting in his own shit for over two weeks since reaching the Twins. 

Derek was physically weak, and his mind was weary. He often found himself confusing reality and his imagination, unable to distinguish between what he wanted to see and what was happening around him. He had seen glimpses of his family members, passing by his field of vision. Once his mind had even conjured a projection of Stiles before him, he knew it was false when the Prince had been concerned for his wellbeing and had attempting to care for his wounds. 

Derek was an injured and starved wolf, cut off from its pack and beaten back into a corner. He needed a way to escape; after all the lone wolf dies while the pack survives. However, Derek is also a realist and he understands his current predicament. He is weak, alone, and has nothing to offer to anyone in exchange for his freedom. If the Freys thought his life held any value, he wouldn’t be locked away in this cage, his flesh slowly rotting.

Derek almost thinks he is hallucinating again when two women approach the front of the cage and begin to unlock the door. Derek doesn’t receive visitors, he only receives sadistic captors, and to say this series of events is strange would be an understatement. The women in front is a slim brunette, her pale skin suggests she is a highborn, and she would objectively speaking be beautiful if not for the horrific scars slicing through her face. Her face carries a warm smile, but her posture looks apprehensive. Behind her is a timid blonde, if her weak appearance is anything to judge by, Derek assumes her health must be failing. She seems wary to be initiating contact between them; and he can only guess that this is her first experience with a northerner. 

The blonde spares Derek a nervous glance before turning back to the brunette, “I thought northerners were supposed to be big and hairy,” she whispers sceptically. 

Derek gives a derisive snort and levels her with a hard look, “Northerners also have functional hearing,” he says dryly.

Much to Derek’s satisfaction, the blonde pales and takes a deliberate step behind the brunette. The brunette places a comforting hand on her forearm before turning back towards him and taking slow deliberate steps forward. 

“You will have to excuse Lady Erica, this is her first time meeting a northerner,” she says complacently. 

Derek flickers his gaze back to the blonde and gives her a charming smile, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance Lady Erica, I would bow before you, but I find myself unable to do so,” he says with a forcibly polite tone. 

If it is truly Erica’s first time meeting a northerner, she is likely to not be from the Riverlands, and as such could quite possibly be the ally Derek is looking for. She seems timid and unsure of her surroundings, Derek can work with this, he is certain he can be persuasive enough to gain her support. 

He slowly pulls his gaze away from Erica and gives the brunette a long onceover, “And by what name should I be calling you,” he asks politely. 

The brunette gives a soft laugh in response, “Jennifer Frey,” she says with a smile. 

Derek quickly shifts his weight back closer to the post, and further away from the woman in front of him. Derek is in no shape to be dealing with any Freys, and he has no plans on attempting to barter for his life with the woman in front of him. 

Despite Derek’s negative reaction to her name, Jennifer continues to advance towards his prone form, an action that has him flinching. “I am sorry my husband and his men have treated you with such horrible care, we have much better manners in the Reach,” she says warmly. 

Derek is unconvinced in the face of her reassurances. He nervously shifts his gaze back and forth between Erica and Jennifer, hoping that one of their faces will reveal their true intentions. Erica seems as lost as he feels, and Jennifer is looking upon him like he is gift. 

Derek furrows his brow in apprehension, “My apologies my lady, but I assure you that my scepticism is well placed.” 

Jennifer kneels down beside him and slowly reaches her hand out to run it over the bruises and cuts on his face. Derek is holding his breath in an attempt to maintain his composure. The only thought playing through his mind is the image of Jennifer producing a blade from her sleeve and plunging it into his throat. 

Jennifer gives Derek a pitying look and extends a hand out towards Erica, whom hands Jennifer a bottle of ointment. “I’m not going to hurt you, I am here to help you,” she says reassuringly. 

Derek shifts his gaze back to Erica and receives an encouraging head nod in response. He has no idea what is motivating these women, but frankly right now he is willing to accept any kind actions thrust towards him. Derek relaxes minutely and leans back against the post, letting his muscles go lax. 

Jennifer takes it as a good sign and moves to straddle his lap before shoving his jacket down his shoulders and undoing the laces on his shirt. In the face of Jennifer’s brazen actions, Derek raises his brows in surprise and attempts to shift his hips down and back away from Jennifer to no avail. 

Jennifer spares an appraising look at Derek’s bare chest and leaves lingering touches as she slowly applies the ointment to his open wounds. “There is no reason this relationship cannot become mutually beneficial my lord,” she says innocently, “I take care your needs, and you take care of mine.” 

Behind her, Erica is nervously shifting her weight from one foot to another, obviously uncomfortable with the proceedings in front of her. Derek can’t blame her; after all he is just as uncomfortable with the events unfolding before him. 

Derek knows he is an attractive man, he has been on the receiving end of many advances over the years, and has never had a difficult time catching to attention of those around him. But right now, there is nothing he desires more than to turn all of Jennifer’s longing stares off of him and onto another. The touches are not welcome, they do not give off the same welcomed heat that the Prince’s had; instead each time Jennifer makes a move to close the distance between them, his stomach gives a harsh twist in protest. 

Derek doesn’t know how women in the Reach are brought up, but he is worried if they are all like Jennifer. He is dehydrated; half starved; has open festering wounds; and has been sitting in his own shit for weeks; yet this woman appears to find the moment romantic. 

She has herself pressed up directly against him, and is stroking her thumbs across his cheekbones, a hungry gaze covering her face. Derek is about to voice his protest when Jennifer dives forward and presses her lips against his in a deep kiss; Derek tenses and grows stock still in response. 

After a long moment Jennifer pulls away and gives him a beaming smile “Think about my offer, we can be good for one another,” she says before rising and striding towards the door of the cage. “Come along Erica,” she orders. 

Derek can feel small tremors wracking his body in protest to his restraints, he would give almost anything to have control over his own bodily autonomy again; Erica narrows her eyes and gives him a calculating look in response. Derek can tell she has something to say, but after a long moment she ultimately shakes her head and heads out of the cage, following in Jennifer’s footsteps. 

Derek doesn’t know how to describe what he just experienced, but he hopes he never has to again. Unfortunately, events like these are starting to become a staple in his life and he is starting to wish that in those previous months, he had never left Winterfell. He sucks in a long shuddering breath and repeatedly hits head against the post behind him. He doesn’t know how he is going to get out of here, but he needs to figure it out, sooner rather than later.

### SEAGARD

Along the western coast of the Riverlands, beside Ironman’s Bay, lies the town and castle of Seagard, the seat of House Mallister; bannermen of the Tullys. Seagard is positioned along the northern point of the Blue Fork River that runs out from the Trident, southwest of the Twins, and as such is a strategic stronghold. 

Seagard was originally built in order to help the Rivermen defend the coast from Ironborn reavers, the bronze bell stationed in the Booming Tower being used as a warning to call the civilians to safety. On this day the bell is tolling, but not for approaching Ironborn longships, instead it tolls in warning for the imposing army of Lord Commander Peter Stark. 

Peter had left the North and headed south with 30,000 men, a large percentage of the Stark bannermen. With this formidable army he had successfully marched down the west coast of the Riverlands with complete impunity. With roughly 20,000 infantry and 10,000 cavalry, Peter had his adversaries right under his thumb. 

The Greyjoys did not train their men for war, instead they were trained to pillage and plunder. It is true that they follow the orders of their commanders without question, but their commanders do not have a mind for total war. Subsequently, the Rivermen have always been disorganized at best, and under the crumbling Tully regime they are even more pathetic than Peter remembered. 

The Stark bannermen were quite the opposite. In times of the peace these soldiers were the same men who plant and harvest the crops, and breed the livestock. But every 6 moons, Peter took it upon himself to call in each regiment one by one from their fields and review the men, in order to ensure they were always prepared for combat. In the past many had called Peter paranoid, or overly cautious; but now all anyone calls him is conqueror. 

Today Peter had decided he was going to conqueror Seagard, he had no doubt in his inevitable success. The previous day, he had taken all precautions necessary to maintain the high morale of his troops. Men need to remain motivated, they need to be aware that they are fighting for the greater good, and that their loyalty will always be rewarded. Because of their success, Peter had seen that extra rations were distributed, and he personally made his way through the ranks attending to any pressing issues. 

Today his soldiers were well fed, well equipped, and their morale was at an all time high. For a number of days, bannermen from Derek’s forces had made their way to his travelling encampments and shared the same story of the House Arryn bannermen aligning themselves with the Targaryens. Peter had taken no interest in handling the Arryn boy himself, after all he is an insubordinate little shit, but he had assumed that Derek would be able to handle him. Fortunately for Peter, the majority of Derek’s bannermen appear to have successfully escaped the poorly planned ambush, and in turn have helped increase the swell and attitude of Peter’s own forces. 

Consequently, Peter knows this means he will need to put his plans to besiege Riverrun on hold. Derek may have made a mistake trying to reason with the naïve Arryn boy, after all men in love do stupid things, but Peter isn’t willing to let him rot in some dungeon for his misjudgement of the boy. He will have to amend his campaign and head back north towards the Green Fork. The longer the enemy has Derek, the greater likelihood their fear towards the Stark name will ultimately weaken and crumble; he hasn’t spent weeks slitting throats and gutting men so that the Rivermen will think him weak. 

Peter had spent weeks planning this battle, and he isn’t going to let anything prevent him from delivering a demoralizing and mortality wounding blow to his enemies. As his army approaches the town Peter directs his commanders to split the infantry into two separate columns, with his heavy cavalrymen flanking their position. He travels ahead with his shock troops; the light cavalry. 

As they ride towards Seagard they come across 500 of the Tully cavalrymen; Peter’s men make quick work of them. Most leaders will tell you to take out the horses, after all without a mount; any mounted soldier becomes no more than a foot mobile. Peter prefers a different methodology, as he is not one to disregard valuable resources in a time of war. He and his men tear through the majority of the Rivermen with their long swords and unseat the rest; Peter can’t have any men alerting the awaiting army to their position, so he takes no prisoners; organs are strewn about, throats are slashed open and blood paints the grass beneath his feet. Of the remaining horses, high quality mounts are quickly rounded up and a number of men ride back ponying the horses towards the encampment. Those of lesser quality are quickly untacked and turned loose to run from the fight; with any luck a poor farmer will find himself coming into some surprising wealth. 

Peter and his men continue on and come to a stop along a densely arboured ridge. From here Peter can see the awaiting army stretching out in front of him, roughly 4 miles in length; the colours of the Tully, and Targaryen bannermen waving proudly above the heads of the infantry regiments and cavalry squadrons. Peter can’t help but grin at the sight; the fools have played themselves directly into his hand. 

The opposing army has positioned themselves on a flat plain in mere miles from the castle, he assumes in order to give their superior numbers the advantage in this presumed head on clash. However, they were wrong in assuming Peter had planned to meet them head on in a contest of numbers and brute strength; he can’t help but feel insulted that they think so little of him. 

No Peter plans to use the rolling hills surrounding the plains in order to conceal his approaching columns as they bypass the enemy army and wheel themselves around to press on their exposed left flank. Given how nicely the opposing commanders have already presented themselves for the slaughter, Peter isn’t expecting much, but that doesn’t stop him from taking precautions. He sends a deceptive number of his troops around towards the right flank in hopes of drawing out the entirety of the army towards them, effectively throwing their full strength and concentration towards the wrong side. 

By the time his men were in place, it appeared as though Peter’s gambled had paid off. Peter sent the remainder of his forces marching directly south to face his enemy head on. Because of this methodology, the majority of the opposing army was congested along the right flank; incorrectly assuming that the men they discovered approaching from the right, were the secret attack in face of the northern approaching forces. If any of the commanders were of the wiser to then men hidden to the left, they were not able to voice their concerns in time. 

Without a moment of hesitation, Peter gave the signal to his commanders and the battle began. The infantry regiments began to push off towards the right of the opposing army, in time with the bannermen of the right flank pushing forward to join the engagement; Peter himself hung back to watch his handiwork. 

His infantry had successfully pulled all of the enemy forces into a tight fold on its right flank. His advancing men were progressing towards the thick of the fighting, but he couldn’t allow the men on the left flank to progress until the enemy cavalry had been displaced. His men continue to fight, and as time progressed corpses of men and beasts began to litter the battlefield, steam rising from the open wounds. 

It took longer than Peter would have liked but eventually the Targaryen cavalrymen were given the order and were sent from their relief position to aid their comrades in the rapidly falling infantry. Once the Targaryen cavalry began to come up alongside the right of his infantry, Peter released his heavy cavalry and in turn found them heavily engaged with the Taragryen men, but eventually made short of them. 

Once the odds had tipped in his favour, and the opposing army was beginning to scatter and fall back towards its left flank, Peter gave the signal to for his remaining men on to advance their attack and effectively enclose their ranks around the enemy forces. The waves of infantrymen and cavalrymen advancing from their abandon left flank have the Targaryen and Tully bannermen crying out in fear; they know there is no means by which they could continue to fight and escape with their lives. 

His forces surround the remaining enemy men and push them into a tight circular formation, rendering escape impossible; Peter is beyond pleased. His face splits into a giant grin and he cues Ultio into a gallop and along with his commanders, heads towards the captured hostiles. 

When he comes upon them, he reins Ultio to a halt and takes stock of the men before him. A number of them have a dire need for medical attention, something not even Peter is willing to deny them, enemy or not. The youngest of the men look frightened; he is please his reputation for leavening no survivors precedes him. 

“I am only going to say this once, so pay attention and choose wisely. You can lay down your arms, surrender and you will be allowed to keep your heads,” Peter dictates with authority. 

He examines the faces before him, and sees the most of the men look relieved and are already dropping their swords. “Refuse my benevolent offer, and I can promise you that on the morrow some swine will be feasting on your corpses,” he threatens. 

There are thousands of men before him, but frankly Peter is willing to make concessions. When one is fighting bloody battles in the open, there is no need to allow any to retain their lives. However, when one is planning on laying siege to a castle, it is prudent to establish a rhetoric that encourages surrender. Peter finds that positive reinforcement works just as well on the Rivermen as it worked on his hunting dogs. 

The majority of the men seem keen to surrender, however he can tell that there are a number who will need their heads removed before the sun sets on the horizon. He turns his attention to his bannerman Lord Umber, “Deal with this lot,” he says with a flourish of his hand, “I have a castle to take,” he finishes. With a nod from his commander, Peter rounds up the necessary thousands he requires and continues his advance towards Seagard Castle. 

Peter is expecting resistance, he is expecting to have rock, fire and seven hells of pain rained down upon him and his men by catapults. He is expecting to have to grapple his way up the walls of the castle, and lead a bloody fight against the men holding the fortress. What he isn’t expecting is for his men to be welcomed with open arms. 

There are people lined outside the castle walls, and the gates are wide open; Peter is awestruck. He is a Lord Commander for their enemies, he is likely responsible for the deaths of their fellow men, yet for some reason these people support him. Peter would be lying if he said he wasn’t thrown by these actions, after all he has reason to hate the Rebels, these people have no reason to love him. 

Children are tugging at their mother’s skirts and throwing flowers at his approaching army, the men are ensuring that their empty hands are visible to the eye, and the women do not even seem worried. Peter is a soldier, he understands that not all men are disciplined, and not all men fight with honour; the women often falling prey to their bad intentions. He ultimately has no idea how to react to this show of support. 

It is easier when they rebel against the attack, then one doesn't have to pretend to care. When the enemy surrenders you have be merciful and tend to their woes. When they welcome you with open arms it means they are expecting reparations, food, medical care, time that he doesn't have to waste on them.

He was expecting to be bombarded with flames, or to fend of swords striking out towards his throat; he was expecting to fend off multiple adversaries and to possibly not escape with his life. He keeps his eyes open and watches for any indication of an awaiting trap, but ultimately fails to see one. He and his accompanying commanders ride into the castle courtyard and dismount to assess the situation. He gives the courtyard one more quick scan as he absently taps his fingers against Ultio’s shoulder, before slowly handing over the reins and leaving to examine his newly acquired temporary residence. 

He spends hours talking with those who surrendered themselves to him, and listening to the reports of his commanders on casualties and resources. And as the day begins to come to a close, Peter is drained by the time his squire informs him of an expected visitor calling for his attention. 

Peter politely excuses himself from the old woman pressuring him to send soldiers to fix her mill, and strides his way back towards the courtyard to meet his awaiting caller. Keeping with the day’s events, he was expecting some lord interested in bartering for his life and land; he was not expecting Lord Deucalion Bolton with his 9,000 loyal bannermen to be waiting outside the gates. 

Peter raises his brows in surprise, “Lord Bolton, to what do I owe the visit,” he asks evenly. 

“Lord Stark, always a pleasure,” Deucalion says with a tight smile. “Your brother sent me to join your forces and aid you in your campaign.” 

Peter knows that he and Deucalion have never had a relationship that could be described as a friendship, but there was no denying the mutual respect between the two of them. Peter would never attempt to deceive Deucalion or insult his intelligence, and in turn Deucalion would always give him the respect he deserved. 

Peter narrows his eyes minutely, “What were my dear brother’s exact words,” he asks sceptically. 

Deucalion’s face splits into an amused grin, “It waffled between keeping an eye on you, and keeping you in line I’m afraid,” he says casually. 

Peter gives an exasperated roll of his eyes, “I regret to inform you that you will be doing neither. However…” he spares a glance at the thousands of bannermen waiting in the distance, “I do have someone for you to get eyes on, and a few individuals who need to be knocked back into line.” 

“Always happy to help my Lord,” Deucalion drawls. 

Peter levels him with a hard look, “You are often keen to remind me of your military prowess, so I am giving you a task that should allow you to live up to your boasts,” Deucalion straightens in his saddle and raises his brows in interest. 

“At this point I assume you have heard about the events that have befallen my nephew, and your future sworn lord,” Peter asks. Deucalion gives a sharp nod in response. 

“I am not ready to abandon my campaign towards Riverrun, thus I need you to head back north and take the Twins,” he says casually. 

Deucalion’s face morphs into an expression of glee. “And once I have taken the Twins,” he asks. 

Peter shrugs, “Return my nephew to me and do what you wish with the Twins so long as you hold the crossing, I have no care as to what befalls the Freys or their bannermen.” 

“And if the Freys do not have your nephew,” Deucalion inquires. 

Peter gives Deucalion a sharp smile in response, “Then flay them until they tell you where he is.” 

Deucalion raises a brow in question but looks undeterred by Peter’s words, “I believe your brother has outlawed flaying in the North,” he says cautiously. 

Peter looks upon Deucalion with thinly veiled amusement, “We aren’t in the North,” he says in a dangerous tone.

### HARRENHAL

On the eastern border of the Riverlands, next to the Gods Eye lake, lies the largest castle in the entirety of Westeros; Harrenhall. The castle is an imposing structure, built to a scale that would comfortable house giants and not men. Harrenhal covers three times as much ground as Winterfell, its stables can house a thousand horses, the godswood stretches over twenty acres, and the kitchens are as large as some castle’s great halls. Many assume it could easily garrison a million men, if need be. 

The castle was originally built over a thousand years prior by Harren Hoare, who boasted of his status as the Lord of the Riverlands and Iron Islands. He felt that his giant fortress would be impregnable and as such was willing to provoke the ire of House Targaryen. Unfortunately, at this time the Targaryens still possessed their dragons, which had not yet gone extinct. The high towers or thick walls did not obstruct the beasts; instead they used their deadly fire to melt the stone and burn Lord Harren in the highest tower of his castle. Following his death, the Targaryens awarded the remains of Harrenhal to House Whent, a family that had been willing to bend the knee before them. 

Today, Harrenhal is a twisted shadow of its once grand appearance. Much of it has fallen into decay, and the melted remains slowly crumble and fall away from the compromised structure. A number of the tops towers are now infested with bats and rodents, and sections of the castle have gone uninhabited in decades. Despite the destruction of the castle, the castle’s holdings are still some of the richest in Westeros, with vast tracts of fertile land being claimed. 

In the past weeks Harrenhal has been taken over by Targaryen forces, under Lady Commander Kate Targaryen. Her soldiers run around unchecked, coming and going as they please, in order to loot and pillage the surrounding countryside. Flowstone Yard that was previously used for men-at-arms training exercises has been converted into a center for interrogation and torture of hostages. The Bear pit, which had previously fallen into disuse, has undergone a revival in order to keep the restless troops sated and complacent. 

When Scott Arryn and his bannermen arrived at Harrenhal, he had been shocked to find the majority of the men gathered around the Bear Pit, watching three young boys, armed with only wooden sticks, attempting to defend themselves from a starved and antagonized bear. Scott was in awe when he was told that Kate herself had organized the fight as entertainment, Allison would never condone such a thing. 

Scott knew that he was over his head; nothing in his life could have prepared him for the past few weeks. Gerard Targaryen had allowed him to secure a betrothal to Allison, and his father had accepted. Unfortunately, he had decided to align their House with the Crown, and against Allison’s family. Scott does not owe anything to the Targaryens, and he does not owe anything to the Starks; his allegiance is to his family, and to him Allison is family in all but name. 

Scott can’t lose Allison, and unfortunately that meant he had to give the Targaryens what they wanted. Gerard and Alexander had made it perfectly clear that they only want what is best for Allison; it is these words that forced Scott to find himself with his back against the wall. He could follow his father’s orders and aid Derek Hale in fighting the Targaryens, or he could aid the Targaryens and stay within theirs and Allison’s good graces. 

Ultimately, he had been forced to choose, and he decided that he wasn’t willing to side with the Starks and lose Allison. The betrayal hadn’t been easy for him to orchestrate. Derek Stark was quite insistent that the Targaryens were to blame for the war, and despite his abrasive personality, Derek was more than willing to take him under his wing and call him a brother in arms. They may have not seen eye-to-eye, or agreed on how to approach the war, but it wasn’t like Scott had planned on leaving him for dead. It was the unfortunate reality that the death of one man over the death of thousands will always be the better option. 

Scott had to reject the alliance with the Starks, to him it was a necessity—he only hopes that his father and the Baratheons understand, or better yet never come to know why the attack at the Green Fork fell apart. Scott knows the Starks are allies of the Baratheons, but he doesn’t expect to find himself facing punishment for his actions. As long as Derek is dead, there is no one to confirm his actions at the Green Fork, as thus his honour will remain untarnished. 

He knows his actions technically went against the Crown, but he wasn’t actively contributing to the revolution, his soldiers weren’t responsible for any deaths, nor was there blood on his sword. The Baratheons wouldn’t accuse him of desertion; the King would understand the necessity to get his troops to safety, especially once he explains that the Frey bannermen saw through Derek Stark’s strategy. 

His father had always told him that friends make terrible enemies and Scott now understands the meaning behind these words. House Arryn had always held a tentative peace with House Baratheon, and had his plan not succeeded, he could have placed his House in a situation where their lordship over the Vale would be relinquished. Scott isn’t worried, he knows that if his word is questioned, Stiles will immediately support him with unwavering loyalty. Stiles had never given a moment’s care to the politics of the realm, and there is no reason for him to start delving into the messy details of it now. Scott knows he can count on his friend’s support; after all they are practically brothers. 

His father had also taught them that one’s promises are meant to remain immune to changing circumstances around them, and as such Scott refuses to forsake his vows to protect Allison, even if he is placing himself in harms way. He swore an oath to her safety, long before he was forced to swear his allegiance to the Starks by fighting alongside them. Scott doesn’t know how he can honour his family, protect Allison, maintain his friendship with Stiles Baratheon, and wash his hands of the Starks, all whilst keeping his sanity intact. Scott feels as if he is teetering on the edge of an abyss and has no idea how to pull himself away from the edge. 

It is because of this mounting anxiety that he has sequestered himself away in the abandon Tower of Ghosts, a surprisingly large collection of bats as his only source of company. Since Scott arrived at Harrenhal, he has been constantly under the watch of Kate’s keen eyes, which has naturally done nothing to alleviate his stress. The Tower of Ghosts has thankfully been long since abandoned, allowing Scott the time alone he needs to try and regain some semblance of control over his life; control that is quickly slipping though his fingers. 

Scott sits on the dusty floor, back pressed up against the crumbling stone wall with his face pressed into his hands. He feels exhausted and attempts to straighten his back, only to receive a twinge of pain for his efforts. 

"You shouldn't worry so much," comes a warm voice from the doorway. Scott looks up and has to rub his tired eyes in shock, standing before him in the doorway is...Allison? 

Scott's face splits into a relieved smile and he scrambles to rise, quickly striding over towards her waiting form. Scott pulls Allison into a crushing embrace and buries his face into her hair, immediately feeling the relief that comes from knowing she is safe; knowing that his sacrifices haven't gone unrewarded. 

They stand there embracing once another for a long time before Scott kisses the crown of Allison's head and slowly pulls away. "You have no idea how worried I have been about you," he says through a sigh of relief. 

Allison tries to keep a straight face but a smile pulls at the corner's of her mouth, "Are you suggesting I can't take care of myself," she asks innocently. 

Scott can't help but laugh, "I have seen what you with your bow—I know you can take care of yourself," Allison gives a bashful smile in response. "But not even you can fend off the entirety of the Stark bannermen," Scott says quietly. 

Allison takes a deep breath and moves her hands from around Scott's neck to smooth out the lines of worry on his face. "My brother told me something similar before he left... he would be pleased to know you share the same worries." 

Scott groans and drops his head to rest on Allison's shoulder, "I would love nothing more than to be free of worry for one night," he says through a muffled voice. 

Allison slides her hands up to card through Scott's hair, "What are you so worried about," she asks soothingly. 

Silence hangs in the air until Scott eventually let's out a long suffering sigh, "I am worried that I am going to lose you. I am worried that my father is going to disown me. I am worried that my mother will no longer see the son she loves. I am worried that everyone I care about it going to get hurt, and that there is nothing I can do to stop it." 

Allison grips her fingers in his hair and pulls his face from her shoulder before leveling him with a hard look. "You can't think like that," she urges, "We may not possess the power necessary to end the war today, but we are powerful enough to make a difference, and that is all that matters." 

Scott searches Allison's eyes for a moment before absently nodding his head in acquiesce. "This is why I need you, you anchor me," he says lovingly, raising his hands up to embrace hers.

"Stay with me tonight," he asks tentatively. 

Allison leans forward in response, her lips finding Scott's and grinning against them throughout the kiss.


	12. You move your lips, and your father's voice comes out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Sorry for the wait, work and show season are bunk.
> 
> II. Holy shit we are over 3k hits

### DUSKENDALE

Northeast of King’s Landing, and the destroyed town of Rosby, lies the town of Duskendale. Situated along the shore of Blackwater Bay, Duskendale is home to the largest port in the Crownlands, its main road running along the shore, connecting the various little fishing villages dotting the way. 

Various merchants and travellers, interested in traversing along the cost; would normally use Duskendale’s main road but since the outbreak of war, the sights have changed dramatically. 

The Crownlands may be the territory of the Targaryens, but the men marching down the way are not carrying their banner; instead a black stag upon a field of gold, proudly waving in the wind. Stannis Baratheon and his army were currently marching through the Crownlands, Stannis preparing to lay siege against the Targaryens for the third time in his life. However, this time there was an unexpected addition to his ranks, his nephew Stiles. 

Stiles hadn’t planned on joining the war directly; hells he never planned on picking up a sword beyond his required lessons. Unfortunately his father had finally taken notice of Stiles’ peculiar level of interest, and it is because of this that he is now headed towards Duskendale, alongside the Baratheon bannermen. 

His uncle had been at the head of the procession, having already arrived at the encampment days earlier. When Stiles did arrive at the encampment he was shocked to find so many supportive men; apparently all it took to gain the support of the men, was to hold the name Baratheon—no military experience required. 

As he rode past them, the men gave him nods of acknowledgement, many bowed their heads, and some even dropped their conversations or tasks in order to kneel before him as he past. Stiles knew that he possessed some level of influence, after all he is the Prince of Westeros; but he never expected the Baratheon bannermen to hold him in such high regard. 

When he arrives at his uncle’s tent, he finds the man conversing with a foreign woman; her looks alone suggest she hails from Dorne, but it is the light golden armour, with intricate detailing that reveals her high born standing. 

As Stiles approaches, Stannis and the woman look up from the map in front of them to acknowledge the newly arrived prince. 

Stannis gives Stiles a hard onceover, “You’ve grown,” he says plainly. 

A handful of quips instantly fill Stiles’ mind, but he isn’t reckless enough to insult his uncle, especially when the man is in charge of his safety for the meantime. “You haven’t changed a bit,” Stiles replies with a smirk. 

Stannis gives a small snort, but a smile does not crack his face, “Stiles, this is the dornish Princess Kali Martell… Kali this is my nephew Stiles Baratheon,” he says with a stilted hand gesture between the two. 

Kali gives a small bow in response, “It is always an honour to meet a prince, especially one who is willing to leave the safety of his castle,” she says with an edge of humour in her voice. 

Stiles can feel his face grow hot in response, “It is my duty as the Prince to protect the people of Westeros and help put an end to this war,” a rehearsed tone carrying throughout his words. 

Both Stannis and Kali raise their brows at the words spoken, Stiles can feel his anxiety mounting. He has been here mere minutes, and he has already made a fool of himself. He should have stayed back in King’s Landing, he should have never gotten involved in Derek’s business in the Riverlands, and he should have just kept himself removed from embarrassing situations like these. 

Stannis is surprisingly the one to break the prolonged silence, “The Martells were informed that you had a need for Scott Arryn to be rounded up and escorted to King’s Landing,” he turns his gaze towards Kali, “The princess here has been kind enough to volunteer her services for you.” 

Stiles mouth falls open in surprise, Kali Martell is a dangerous mercenary, one who has no reason to be getting involved in his problems, especially ones as petty as knocking Scott back into line. 

“My sincerest gratitude, your help will not go unappreciated,” he says in awe. 

Kali spares a quick side glance at Stannis before giving Stiles a sharp smile, “I imagine you want him alive, any other stipulations,” she asks. 

“Err… you don’t have to hurt him,” Stiles says weakly, “Just find him and throw him in a cell at the Red Keep, I’ll deal with him once I have finished here with my uncle.” 

Kali looks slightly put out by Stiles’ orders, that she does not hurt the boy, but she nods in acquiesce all the same. “Of course my prince,” she says with a sweeping bow. She turns back towards Stannis, “Try to smile every once in a while, you can take pleasure from things other than killing Targaryens,” she says mockingly before sauntering away towards her bannermen. 

After a few moments of silence Stiles awkwardly clears his throat, “I am afraid to ask, but what exactly does she hold against the Arryns, that she is willing to hunt down Scott for me,” he asks warily. 

Stannis shakes his head at Stiles in disbelief, “She has no quarrels with House Arryn, she does however respond well to incentive.” 

Stiles raises his brows, indicating for his uncle to continue. 

“You told your uncle Parris that you wanted Scott Arryn brought to King’s Landing, and in response he threw enough gold at Westeros’ most deadly mercenary to see it done for you,” Stannis says evenly. 

“How much gold,” Stiles asks curiously. 

“I imagine enough to rebuild that burnout husk of Rosby we passed on the road,” Stannis says casually. 

Stiles stares at him incredulously. “What,” he says flatly. 

Stannis gives a small shrug, “Parris Lannister is not short on gold. Nor is he short on friends in Dorne.” 

Stiles’ face contorts into an expression of pure confusion, “Since when are the Lannisters friends with the Martells,” he inquires. 

Stannis give his nephew a disapproving look, “It is embarrassing that I am more aware of the back channel politics than you are, especially since you live in a city of gossiping rats,” the last words spit out in disgust. “Your cousin Jackson has been on good terms with the Martell heir for years, the two of them have done well to bridge the relations between their houses.”

Stiles frowns, “Danny is too good for Jackson. Jackson is a fucking prick,” he says spitefully. 

Stannis gives a half interested raise of his brow, “Is this another one of your obsessions, like the Tyrell girl? I understand you two are related, but you two should try lusting after different people,” he says with a tired grimace. 

Stiles gives an indignant squawk in response, “I am not lusting after Danny,” he jabs an accusatory finger towards his uncle, “And I was not ‘obsessed’ with Lydia Tyrell,” he argues. 

Stannis’ expression remains unimpressed, “My mistake, I was unaware that lusting after the girl, before you even knew what your cock was for, was not obsession. Nor was I aware that showering her with constant praise for imagined accomplishments was a normal part of courtship, or commissioning countless songs about her undeniable beauty and perfection, or planning your ten year betrothal, wedding and names of your children—“ 

“Okay I get it,” Stiles interjects angrily. “I wasn’t obsessed, I just thought I was in love,” he adds bitterly. 

“And when did you discover that you weren’t in love,” Stannis asks dryly. 

“Around the time she chose Jackson’s gold over me. She always said how all she truly desired was to be the Queen, yet she didn’t want it enough to have to stand beside me,” Stiles says quietly. 

Stiles takes a deep breath in an attempt to regain his composure, “She attended a tournament with me, she was willing to sit beside me and allow me to accompany her around the grounds. However, I later found out that was only because her and Jackson had fought the previous day. Worse yet, after Scott injured Jackson in the sword, I discovered Scott and Lydia kissing in a quiet section of the grounds… apparently she was willing to settle for Lady of the Vale, but being my Queen was a hardship she could not endure,” he says in a self-deprecating tone.

Stannis rolls his eyes and gives him a jarring pat on the back, “Don’t sulk, you are a prince, it is below you. Lydia Tyrell will marry whomever her father promises her to, you will marry whomever you find worthy of ruling beside you—be glad you have any choice in the matter.” 

Stiles anxiously chews on his lip and kicks at the dirt below his boots before once again turning to look at his uncle. “What if I can’t marry the person I want,” he asks quietly. 

Stannis gives a shrug, “Life isn’t always what we want it to be, just be glad you aren’t starving in a gutter somewhere.” 

Stiles nods his head absently but continues to gnaw through his bottom lip, the sharp taste of blood filtering into his mouth. “What if he is starving in a gutter somewhere,” he adds, his voice barely a whisper. 

Stannis raises his head with a jerk, and looks at his nephew with a curious expression, “Whom are we speaking of,” he asks cautiously.

Stiles knows his uncle isn’t exactly a warm man, nor do they have a particularly close relationship, but telling him about Derek could either be the best decision he could make, or it could be the worst. If he reveals his growing infatuation with the northerner, then perhaps his uncle will take pity on him and be willing to send troops into the Riverlands. Or in contrast, he could mock him for falling headfirst into yet another bout of unrequited love. 

Stiles anxiously scrubs a hand over the back of his head and through his hair, before releasing a long frustrated sigh, “Derek Stark,” he says with a wince. 

Stiles is expecting laughter, or harsh words; what he isn’t expecting is for a small smirk to grace his uncle’s usually stony face. “You certainly don’t aim low do you,” his uncle asks with humorous tone. 

Stiles gives a choked off laugh in response and slouches forward, bracing his forearms on the table in front of them. “He really is something,” he says with a small smile. 

Stannis reaches up and places a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck, giving it a quick squeeze in response. “And so are you; even more so after you have learned how to effectively lead an entire army.” 

Stiles preens at his uncle’s words, “You honestly think I will be a good commander,” he asks nervously. 

“If you are half as good as your father at telling people what to do, and half as good as me at putting a sword through men, you will be an excellent commander,” Stannis says encouragingly. 

“Good enough of a commander to keep Derek’s interest,” Stiles asks hopefully. 

Stannis takes a moment to consider Stiles’ words, “You can ask him yourself, once the last of the Targaryens are dead,” he says plainly. A blinding smile fills Stiles’ face, and he bounces on the balls of his feet excitedly. 

Stiles knows that a difficult road lies ahead, this is his first time stepping into the shoes of the ruler he needs to become, and leaving behind the carefree boy he once was. He now has the ability to shape the future, for not only himself but also those who depend upon him. He can learn from his uncle and become a master strategist; he can do everything in his power to save Derek; and he can put an end to the Targaryen bloodshed one and for all. 

In all honesty he should be afraid, but right now optimism and foolish pride are flooding his system. Perhaps it is the fact he has an entire army behind him, or the veteran commander at his side. Regardless, Stiles doesn’t feel the usual cold wash of fear that takes over when responsibility looms over him, instead he finds himself standing tall and vibrating with excitement over going toe to toe with the Targaryens. 

Stiles claps his hands together and flashes a cocky smile at his uncle, “So what’s the plan.”

### THE SUNSET SEA

Along the western shore of Westeros is the relatively unexplored Sunset Sea. Numerous ships have attempted to sail past the Iron Islands, and venture out into the deep water, but none have ever returned. The Sunset Sea does not often see many ships sailing its waters. 

On this night, the rarely traversed sea is the battleground for a clash between the Greyjoy and Lannister Armadas. Both Armadas are being buffeted by an ongoing storm, but none of the commanders are willing to disengage. The waves are raging and batter against the ships, as lightening streaks across the darkening sky. 

The Greyjoy longships are not built to handle these waters; they are not constructed to withstand the dangerous currents that wreak havoc along the coast of the Westerlands. As such many have been forced to drop anchor in hopes of protecting their ships from blowing off course into the awaiting rocky cliffs. 

Days earlier, a portion of the Greyjoy Armada, 150 ships had sailed from their port at the Iron Islands, towards the shores of the Westerlands. The Greyjoy ships were slower and ultimately less armed than the Lannister counterparts, but was superior in the face of boarding actions during battle. 

When the Greyjoy ships first came into range, the Lannister commanders ordered to have them bombarded by the long-range heavy guns, thankfully thinning out the Armada of the assaulting Ironborn. 

However, the Greyjoy Armada has yet to perish, and their ships are clustered together in defense position. The Lannisters do not wish to send their ships forward, as they either run the risk of damaging their own ships on the rocky shores, or being boarded by the Ironborn raiders. 

Jackson Lannister stands on the deck of his ship staring out at the scene before him, completely unfazed by the hard rains pelting down upon him. Contact between him and the other commanders are limited when many remain upon the shore, and the others are spread out throughout the Armada. 

He knows that the Lannister ships are superior, but not even they will withstand the brutality of the rough waters much longer. He needs to end this battle, and he needs to ensure that the enemy is not able to stand when it is said and done. 

The Greyjoy’s have taken up their defensive positioning, and from the looks of things are quite keen to hold it and wait for his men to approach them. Jackson can’t help but scoff at the thought that they think him stupid enough to play into their hand. 

He anxiously taps his fingers against the railing of the ship before turning to address Lord Westerling. “I need you to find me the ten ships in the worst condition, and I need them here at our position as quickly as possible,” he commands. 

Lord Westerling raises a questionable brow, but gives a quick bow and begins to shout out orders all the same. Jackson is somewhat surprised that the man even listens to him.

He knows that he was placed in charge of the operation, but it wouldn’t be the first time that other lords had belittled him or his questionable standing. The name Lannister demands respect from everyone, and as such no one is willing to insult him to his face, but that doesn’t stop him from hearing the whispers. 

If he wins this battle—if he obliterates the Greyjoy Armada, those whispers will fall upon deaf ears. He will finally be respected for his ability as a leader, his ability to get the job done, regardless of the circumstances or what challenges are thrown at him. He will finally receive respect not because he holds the name Lannister, but because everyone will recognize what he has achieved. 

Once all 10 ships have limped their way to the front of the formation, and Lord Westerling has returned, Jackson calls all his available men to him in order to divulge his plan. 

“I need 10 archers, 10 archers who know they will be able to hit one of these ships from over 40 yards out, no questions asked,” Jackson says. 

He scans his eyes over the men before him, and slowly one by one, ten men step forward under their own volition. 

Jackson gives them a smug smile, “I certainly hope you are all up to the task, there is no room for failure in this plan. The ten of you will fire flaming arrows from the deck of this ship when I give the signal, the rest of you are too pour as much pitch across the decks of the ships as possible, and then set their course towards the anchored Greyjoy ships.” 

Jackson watches as the men slowly piece together his plan, reactions ranging from scepticism to reluctant approval. “Any questions,” he asks airily. 

Lord Westerling is the only man to speak up, “We are going to send 10 explosive ships towards the Greyjoy fleet and fire flaming arrows at them,” he asks slowly. 

Jackson shoots him an unimpressed look, “Yes, we are. The Greyjoys have anchored down their fleet, and we are going to decimate it before they could ever hope to escape,” he says with annoyance. “Honestly, what is so difficult to grasp about this situation? Our crippled ships are rigged explosives, that will sink the majority of our enemy, thus allowing us to effectively board and overpower the remaining vessels.” 

Lord Westerling gives a loud laugh, “Who knew you had it in you boy,” Jackson can practically hear the condescension dripping from his words. “You heard the Lord Commander, I don’t want to see a single barrel of pitch remaining, I want those ships soaked down to the core,” he yells out at the men. 

Jackson watches as the men soak the nearly destroy ships in pitch, before rigging their sails to send them towards the awaiting Greyjoy Armada. The men quickly jump from their doomed vessels back onto the remaining one’s nearby, and watch as the ships slowly sail towards their target. Once the ships are within a close enough distance, Jackson gives the signal for the archers to fire their arrows. 

Time nearly stands still as the projectiles travel through the air, but when they hit their targets, the sight is beautiful. The ten ships burst into flames causing the Ironborn to look out in a horror and scramble to try and cut their anchors before the flaming ships make berth at their very location. 

Jackson can hear the men yelling in fear, and can see many jumping from the decks of their ships into the black waters below them. The Lannister ships smash into those at the front of the Greyjoy formation, and the fire quickly begins to spread, effectively trapping the remaining ships between the rocky shores and a wall of fire. A satisfied smirk finds its way to Jackson’s face. 

The Lannister men remain at their positions and spend hours watching the destruction before them. The dark clouds continue to whip across the sky, the flashing lightening illuminating the scene before them, as the wind makes short work of the wreckage by quickly sending it down into the depths of the sea. A constant chorus of booming thunder, shattering timber, and screaming men continues on until the Greyjoy Armada had been crushed into oblivion. 

Once the flames had almost died down, Jackson orders the advancement of his fleet, as the ships progress they find the waters to be littered with dead Ironborn sailors, planks of woods and torn Greyjoy standards. 

The Lannister men grapple and board the remaining vessels, and quickly slice their way through any survivors. Jackson orders his ship to head straight for the Great Kraken, the flagship of House Greyjoy; in Jackson’s eyes, a gaudy monstrosity. 

Jackson and the Lannister men quickly grapple the longship and descend down upon its deck, making short work of the remaining men onboard. Jackson was elated with his victory, but his evening continues to grow better when two of his men approach him and throw Lord Quenton Greyjoy at his feet. Jackson had not only destroyed the Greyjoy Armada, he had captured the Lord of the Iron Islands. 

Jackson gives a sneer at the man before him, as Queton Greyjoy snarls at the Lannister men and rises to his feet. “Let’s make this quick shall we. Your ships are at the bottom of the Sunset Sea, your men are floating amongst the waves, you are completely disarmed, and I am craving a hot bath. So how about I have one of my men fetch us some parchment and quill, and you can sign off on your surrender,” Jackson asks in a confident tone. 

Jackson begins to slowly march in a circle around the captured lord, aggravating him further. A furious expression covers Quenton’s face, and he gives a harsh laugh before he turns to look over his shoulder and spits in Jackson’s face. 

Jackson snarls in outrage and quickly draws his sword, slashing it across the back of Quenton’s heels, severing his Achilles tendons. “I am only going to ask one more time,” he grits out angrily, “Give me your notice of surrender.” 

The slash to his heels has Quenton falling to his knees, “Only little cunts surrender, I am an Ironborn,” he yells in retaliation, grimacing through the pain. 

Jackson plunges his sword into the fallen lord’s right shoulder, earning a scream of pain for his efforts, “You look an awful lot like a little cunt to me,” he says airily. 

Quenton gives a wheezing laugh, spitting out blood with each exhalation. “Questionable words coming from the mouth of Peter Stark's bastard,” he says with a sharp smile. 

Jackson snarls before lunging forward and plunging his sword straight through Quenton Greyjoy’s open mouth and out the back of his skull; effectively removing the mocking grin from his face. 

Jackson yanks back his sword and watches the now lifeless corpse of the Ironborn lord fall forward onto the deck of the ship. He absently wipes the blood from his sword onto the corpse’s cloak and looks up at the surprised faces of the surrounding men. “Anyone else want to call me a bastard,” he asks with a raise of his brows.

### THE TWINS

Derek finds himself quietly strolling through the Great Keep; golden rays of early morning light are streaming in through the windows, dust motes dancing through their beams. He keeps his footsteps light and silent, he doesn’t know why, but something is telling him that he is intruding. 

At the opposing end of the Keep is the Iron Throne, Stiles sitting upon it—but he isn’t alone. On his lap sits a young boy, no older than five; Derek can’t help but notice the familiar dark hair and pale eyes. 

Stiles is gently running his fingers through the boy’s unruly mess of hair, a warm smile playing across his lips. “One day you will sit on this throne, and all the beasts will bow to you; all the bears in the north, the lions in the west, the foxes in the south, the birds in the sky and the beasts of the sea. One day you will be king, and they will all come before you, little stag, to rest a crown upon your head,” he says lovingly. 

The boy screws his face up into a concerned expression before tilting his head back to look up at Stiles, “What about my wolf,” he asks, the worry evident in his tone. 

Stiles gives a small grimace before kissing the crown of the boy’s head, “The sun will bow before you, the moon rising in its place, and all the wolves will howl for their king.” 

As Derek draws nearer he sees that only a few paces from the base of the Iron throne lies a wolf pup—no a direwolf pup, chewing on the Grand Maester’s ceremonial chains. To Derek the sight is a punch in the gut; there is only one reason that the little boy before him would have a pet direwolf. The direwolf has always been a sigil of his House, and no other family has ever attempted to keep any as pets. 

When he stares upon the boy, he sees his own pale eyes looking back at him, there is no doubt in his mind that boy before him is indeed his son. However, the splattering of moles across the boy’s face tells him that he is correct in assuming Stiles is the other parent. Despite the fact Derek is standing directly at the base of the Throne, his presence goes completely unnoticed by the other occupants of the room.

The boy—no his son, is laughing gleefully and clapping his hands at his mother’s words, “Hale likes to howl.”

Stiles shoots the pup an unimpressed look, “He most certainly does, especially all throughout the night. He also has an affinity for destroying everything he can bite his teeth into, especially those gulls the two of you were hunting on the beach yesterday.” 

His son absently swings his legs, and tries to give Stiles an expression of pure innocence, “But Father said it is good that he does those things, he said he needs to do them so he can protect me,” he raises up one of his little hands and prepares to start ticking off his fingers. “He howls so that everyone will know where we are, and he chews so that he will have a really strong teeth, and father said that he has to hunt now so that one day he can hunt down bad men,” he says matter-of-factly. 

Stiles wraps his arms around the boy and pulls him tight against his chest, “And your father is right. Your little wolf will protect you, because neither of us are ever going to let anything happen to you.” 

Derek doesn’t know what this vision is, but something inside of him is tearing him apart, he wants this with his entire being. He wants to hold his family in his arms; he wants to protect them from whatever evils still exist in the world; he wants this to be real. He slowly begins to ascend the steps up the throne towards his husband and son, and reaches a hand out towards them. 

“Stiles,” he says quietly, silent tears sliding down his cheeks. 

Both Stiles’ and his son’s heads snap up in alarm and lock eyes with him, both their faces turning into sorrowful expressions. “Please come back,” Stiles says in a broken voice. 

Before Derek can answer his world is spinning and he is waking up to the sound of jangling chains. As he wakes to reality, Derek gives a sharp jerk and frantically scans his surroundings. To his dismay he is still locked in the Gods forsaken cage at the Twins. His mind and body are still reeling from his dream; he can feel the hot tears streaking down his face, whilst his muscles are shaking from adrenaline. 

There are hands on his face, and a voice attempting to offer him comfort, but they don’t belong to the person he wants. Instead of helping calm him, Jennifer’s unwanted touches are only aggravating his situation more, and it isn’t until she reluctantly pulls away that he is able to slowly regain a sense of composure. 

Jennifer gives a Derek a pitying look, “I am deeply sorry about the vivid dreams, they are an unfortunate side effect of the wolfsbane in the ointment I keep applying to your wounds,” she says in a remorseful tone. 

When Derek refuses to acknowledge her, she decides to once again close the distance between them, and crouches down inches from his person. “What were you dreaming of,” she asks, obvious hopefulness laced in her voice. 

Derek doesn’t know how to describe what he just experienced, whatever it was, it was intimate and not something he wants to share. He gives Jennifer a half-hearted shrug in response. 

Jennifer raises her brows and flickers her gaze between Derek’s eyes and mouth, “I have heard that one dreams of their deepest desires,” she says in a suggestive tone. 

He wouldn’t call being married to Stiles, or being a King of Westeros, his deepest desire. However, there is no doubting the fact he longs to have a family one-day, and the strong little boy he envisioned is only the tip of the iceberg. Derek wants to see his parents again; he wants to see Peter reunited with his own family; he wants to watch Laura and Cora have children of their own. If Derek finds himself reunited with Stiles, and they happen to one day marry, then so be it. Derek will be content as long as it is for love. 

“I dreamt of my family,” Derek offers quietly. 

Derek swears he sees a flash of annoyance cross Jennifer’s face before she schools it back into an understanding expression. 

“I am sure you miss your family dearly,” she says pityingly, “But I promise you if we work together, you will get to see them again.” 

Derek raises his brows at her in thinly veiled scepticism. Derek knows he needs an ally in order to escape this cage, but he doubts Jennifer is the person he is searching for. She has taken care of his wounds, and done her best to heal him, but quite frankly she is unsettling. 

He doesn’t know what she sees in him, or what she wants him for, but she has been adamant about gaining his favour and cementing a bond between the two of them. She is married to a Frey, she was born into a wealthy House within the Reach, and there is nothing a prisoner like Derek can possibly offer her that she does not already possess. 

Derek’s remains obstinate in the face of Jennifer’s pressuring, and as a result she continues to grow increasingly more agitated. “If you ever plan to lay eyes upon your family again, you will need to accept me as your ally,” She says with a biting tone. 

Derek gives a slight grimace, “What could I possibly offer you in return for you allowing me to go free,” he asks dryly. 

Jennifer gives a sharp laugh in response to his words, “Oh Derek, who said anything about you being free,” Jennifer chastises. 

Derek’s expression changes to one of alarm, “If you do not mean to set me free, then what could you possibly offer me—what do you even want from me,” he asks. 

Jennifer moves from her crouched position, to settle herself upon Derek’s thighs, grinding her weight down into his lap. “I am going to allow you to kill my husband and his brother; consider it a wedding present from my House to yours. Because once they are dead, you are going to do the honourable thing by marrying me, bedding me, and putting an heir in me.” 

At this moment, Derek wants nothing more than to yell ‘Fuck your plan’ directly into Jennifer’s face, unfortunately he does not possess that luxury. At this point he is still very much a captive and Jennifer is losing more of her sanity by the day. Derek knows the Freys are a dangerous house, he has watched their sworn men swell in number as they gain the support of the other sworn houses. The Tullys are weak, and if they survive this war, they will be dismantled by their own bannermen in record time; and more than likely replaced by the Freys as the new wardens of the Riverlands. Aiden and Ethan Frey were never capable of raising their House to such heights before Jennifer married into their house, and Derek imagines she is the one who is indeed pulling the strings.

The problem is that he has been captive for a number of weeks, and is completely unawares as to what has transpired since the collapse of his marching army. Has Peter maintained his campaign, did he managed to take Riverrun, or was his siege a failure; these are the facts Derek is missing. Is his father still at Winterfell, or was the man forced to take over the position vacated by himself when he was stupid enough to get captured. He hasn't the slightest thought as to if Laura has awoken, or if Cora has been allowed to train alongside the soldiers. Perhaps the Stark troops have been pushed out of the Riverlands, perhaps the Ironborn are pillaging the northern coast. There are too many variables for him to be careless in actions.

Derek's options are limited. He doubts Jennifer has the ability to extend her influence far into the North, but he would be a fool to think that she does not have contacts beyond her own borders. Jennifer is dangerous, but what Derek hasn't figured out is to what degree; does she truly possess the ability to rally the Rivermen behind her, or is the power she wields merely an illusion. He doesn't want to be responsible for the deaths of innocents, simply because he did not give her the respect she warranted, but frankly he is at his wits end.

“And if I don’t,” Derek grits out through clenched teeth.

Jennifer gives him a sharp smile and leans forward to whisper into his ear, “I will kill everyone you love, one…by one…by one,” she says quietly. “Your parents, your siblings, hells anyone who could challenge our love; I promise you they will all die, even if I have to strangle them myself.” 

“This isn’t love, this is servitude,” Derek hisses out in return. Jennifer delivers a stinging slap to his face for his efforts, causing his head to painfully whip to the side. 

She grabs his face with her hands, jerking it back up to once again face her and angrily digs her fingers into his flesh, no doubt hoping to leave her marks upon him. “The sooner you accept the fact we are meant to be together, the sooner you will find peace,” she spits out angrily. 

“I don’t love you, I don’t even know you,” Derek argues.

“You will,” Jennifer replies, the warning heavy in her voice.


	13. Great or small, we must do our duty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Sooo just realized I am a failure, meaning I failed to mention to you guys I am currently in Brasil cheering on Germany in the World Cup. I will try to write when I can, and it just may take two weeks instead of one, or a week and half. Just be patient, I am doing this in between watching matches, playing footie on beaches and throwing back a lot of alcohol. 
> 
> II. I have had a few people hit up my tumblr recently, one asking for a list of who dies... If you want a rough list I am willing to disclose it to you. I have also been asked if I am adding Malia.. I have decided she can be the maegi lady Mirri Maz Duu who turned Drogo into a vegetable and killed Drogon because you know she is a sketchy coyote. But since she lives out of Westeros, zero fucks have been given and we will never see her. If you have any questions you want to do on anon, then feel free to hit me up at haleofalannister.tumblr.com since everyone else seems to be. 
> 
> III. If there are certain relationships you want as end game please say so in the comments, I am not going to force everyone into a relationship at the end of the story, unnecessary love affairs aren't my bag, so I am fine leaving certain characters unattached.

### HIGHGARDEN

Since the onslaught of the war, the Reach has become a realm divided. Many of the sworn Houses have chosen to remain loyal to the Tyrells, however the support for the Florents has been gradually increasing. 

War is an expense no one wants to endure: the highborn are not content to see their resources collected and distributed to the troops; lowborn object to having their fields and land destroyed by invading armies and bloody battles; men are drafted into the ranks, leaving behind their families and lives as they know it; and naturally all social classes are prepared to voice their outrage against an increase in taxes. 

The Tyrells however, cared not for such worries. They maintained the belief that their bannermen would support them. Should they turn against them, the traitors would be barred from the walls of Highgarden and left to die during the inevitable sieges. 

The Reach is a fertile land, and as such almost all lords are willing to engage in a war of attrition. The wealthiest have the impenetrable walls of their fortresses to hide behind, and enough stores of foods to last them for well over a year before they would be forced to consider rationing the remaining resources.

The lord and ladies of the Reach may enjoy playing at war, by hosting a plethora of tournaments, but history has show they prefer to provide resources to men. After all it is easier to rest well on one’s featherbed after handing out mutton and bread, than it is to trudge through the blood saturated mud and survive off of the mouldy bread one has taken from the possession of a cooling body. 

The Tyrells are well prepared for a war of attrition, and it is because of this fact that the life they live has faced little to no concessions during the outbreak of this conflict. Lord Mace and Lady Olenna still spend the majority of their days fighting each other, as oppose to working alongside one another and vanquishing the increasing dissent amongst their men. 

Despite the increasing tensions amongst the wardens of the Reach, Highgarden continues to be a place of peace and comfort for all whom live there. The tunes of songbirds continue to filter from the gardens in through the opens windows, a light breeze rustling the leaves of the trees in accompaniment. 

The Gardens surrounding the inner citadel are in full bloom, and due to this enticing nature are currently playing host two young women; women do who not yet know of the important role they will play in this war. They have both been fortunate enough to not be exposed to the horrors taking place in other realms, and it is because of this that they continue to live peacefully within their false reality. 

Lydia Tyrell is reclined on a large lounge, with her head on the lap of her sister Meredith who is lazily braiding her hair, only stopping on occasion to turn the page of the book lying next to her thigh. 

Lydia is a state of complete relaxation, courtesy of her sister’s nimble fingers carding through her hair. She may be fortunate enough to live in a realm where war has yet to reach the borders, but she has had to make changes in her life; annoying changes. She is no longer allowed to leave the city walls without an armed guard, her friends outside of the Reach are forbidden from visiting, and she is forbidden to write to any of them. 

For all intents and purposes Lydia has been cut off from Allison, Scott and Jackson; something she is doing her best to fight. She has yet to hear from Allison or Scott for days, but Jackson continues to write, despite his earlier words claiming he could no longer speak to her ‘for the good of his house’. 

Lydia refuses to take no for an answer, regardless of whom she is talking to too. It is an attribute which her parents entertaining since she was young, one they most likely regret more and more each passing day. Lydia has standards for living, and unfortunately for her parents, keeping in contact with her friends happens to be one of them. 

In recent weeks all she had heard from Jackson was that he would engaging the Greyjoys, no more, no less. Ultimately writing Jackson had been a waste of her time, considering he had nothing of use to tell her, honestly she expected better after all the time she had invested in him. 

Lydia releases a frustrated huff and tilts her head back to look up at her sister, “Any chance you have heard anything interesting lately,” she asks with faux casualty in her voice. 

Meredith raises a brow but refuses to humour her sister, “I thought you weren’t interested in the trivial matters taking place outside our walls,” she answers dryly. 

Lydia purses her lips in annoyance, “Snark doesn’t suit you my darling sister,” she singsongs in response. 

Meredith smiles and twirls a strand of Lydia’s hair around her finger, “I will tell you everything I know, so long as you beg me for it,” he says proudly. 

Lydia’s mouth flies open to unleash an angry retort, but she is fortunate enough to catch herself in time, snapping it shut before releases a long shaky breath. “Would you please share your knowledge with me, my wise… wonderful sister,” she grits out through clenched teeth. 

Meredith gives her a blinding smile for her efforts; she knows the limits of Lydia’s patience. “Peter Stark is decimating the western coast of the Riverlands,” she supplies. 

Lydia rolls her eyes in disinterest, “Of course he is. Everyone knows that man is dangerous. I expected nothing less,” she states in a judging tone. 

Meredith gives a small shake of her head before continuing, “Scott Arryn betrayed Derek Stark to the Freys, and has apparently taken up arms with the Targaryens—despite his father maintaining allegiance to the Crown.” 

Lydia considers her words for a moment before waving her hand dismissively, “Any fool could tell that would happen, the boy is crazy about Lady Allison. He has invested all his spare thoughts in her, and saved none for basic reasoning.” 

Meredith breaks out in a loud laugh at Lydia’s words, bringing a smug smile to her sister’s face. “Come on then, you must have something worth my time,” Lydia presses. 

Meredith taps his finger against her chin for a moment before a triumphant smile graces her lips, “I am not certain of the validity of these words, but I have heard that Stiles Baratheon is fighting alongside his uncle in the Crownlands.” 

At this Lydia shoots up from her sprawled out position and draws her brows in scepticism, “Stiles Baratheon, the gangly awkward little boy that used to follow me around at all the tournaments. Stiles Baratheon who almost maimed himself when he was trying to swing a sword around to impress me; that Stiles Baratheon,” she asks in a shrill tone, her voice climbing higher with each word spoken.

“One in the same,” Meredith replies smugly.

Lydia’s expression is one of utter confusion, “Does he even know how to put on his own armour, or better yet can he actually kill a man without pissing himself,” she spits out. 

Meredith is struggling to contain her laughter, but manages to give her sister a half-hearted shrug, “He is Jackson’s cousin you know, I am sure he has some redeeming qualities,” she states with a snort of laughter. 

Lydia flips her hair back over her shoulder and once again lowers herself down, resting her head in her sister’s lap. “I can say with the utmost certainty that no one would dare let that disaster near a battlefield. He will be sitting on his horse, watching the battle unfold from the sidelines, whilst the true men battle it out for realm and glory.” 

Meredith gives her sister a fond eye roll and starts to absently braid her hair. “Always so dramatic,” she drawls out. 

Lydia gives a self-satisfied smile, “What is life without a little drama now and then.”

“I assure you, it is most welcome,” Meredith retorts. 

Lydia shakes her head, earning her a swat on the arm from her sister in reprimand for ruining the braid. Lydia stills herself and remains quiet for a number of minutes before once pressing her sister for information. “What of the Targaryens,” she asks. 

“Why don’t you ask one yourself,” comes a voice from the edge of the garden. 

Lydia quickly sits up and twists around to see Christophe Targaryen leaning against a column, observing the scene before him. 

Lydia smacks Meredith on the arm, “Leave now,” he hisses out through a clenched smile. 

Meredith shoots Lydia an offended expression. “One; you shouldn’t hit people. Two; why do I have to leave,” she asks angrily. 

“Because I told you too. Now leave us,” she orders in a biting tone. 

Meredith scoffs at her sister’s actions, but nonetheless rises from her seat, sparing a courtesy before the Lord Targaryen and exiting out of the garden. 

Lydia attempts to smooth out her hair and dress before leaning back, doing her best attempt at sprawling out seductively on the chaise. All she earns for efforts is a confused face and an amused snort. 

Christophe Targaryen begins to slowly stride his way around the garden, stopping every couple of steps to examine a new flower. “To answer your question, Allison is in the Riverlands with our sister, and my wife. I imagine our father and mother are still residing at Dragonstone, I have no reason to think otherwise.” 

“Wife,” Lydia asks innocently. 

Chris spares her a short glance and shakes his head at her disapproving expression, “Victoria Tully—or I suppose it is Victoria Targaryen now.” 

Lydia tries to feign nonchalance and examines her fingernails, “You seem to have moved on from the Stark girl rather quick,” she states. 

Chris expression darkens, “No I have not. Unfortunately after what befell Laura…” he breaks off taking a moment to maintain his slipping composure, “After what befell Laura, our union was no longer an option. The match between Victoria and I was a strategic move for our houses.” 

“Then you will be able to move on from her quickly,” Lydia asks innocently. 

Chris gives a short laugh, “You are the same age as my baby sister, and you should be interested in men your own age.” 

Lydia contorts her face into an expression of mock outrage, “That is an awfully forward accusation you are making my lord.”

Chris shoots her an unimpressed look but strides over to the chaise and sits down besides her, “Says the girl questioning when I will be willing to leave my wife for someone better.”

Lydia tries to keep her face void of emotion, but a smile eventually cracks the mask, “It is an honest question,” she states casually.

An easy silence hangs in the air between them for minutes until Lydia breaks it, “When will I get to see Allison again,” she asks quietly. 

Chris spares her a sympathetic look, “Unfortunately I do not even know when I will see her next. I imagine once the fighting in the Riverlands is complete, she will join us here in the Reach—though that would hinge upon our success. One can only hope that Highgarden is never besieged.” 

Lydia gives an amused snort, “They can sit outside our city walls as long as they like. Given the small number of men within our walls, and our impressive stores of food, we would be able to remain locked inside for almost two years before we would need to ration our supplies as though we were truly in a war time situation.” 

Chris gives Lydia a considering look, “How are you so sure of this,” he asks evenly. 

Lydia tries to deflect the question by focusing on smoothing out her skirt instead of acknowledging the man beside her, “I did the calculations,” she says quietly, a small shrug its accompaniment. 

Chris gives her an appraising look, “I would fall asleep out of boredom before I finished counting the bags of wheat, let alone calculating everything. I truly applaud your effort,” he says with a warm smile. 

Lydia let’s a small smile creep onto her face in response, but the blush crawling up neck reveals how pleased she truly is with the compliment. Most men are willing to wax on poetically about her porcelain skin, or how her hair has been kissed by fire, but none have ever taken an interest in her mind. It may have been no difficult feat on her part to do the calculations, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

Most men are intimidated by her ability to manipulate them, her wit and intelligence could be considered the two most powerful tools are her disposal; her face is but a mere afterthought. If she is going to trust anyone with her schemes, Chris seems like the person to entertain. 

“I am still in contact with Jackson Lannister,” she says abruptly. 

Chris raises is brows in interest and turns to face her, “I do believe your parents instructed you to cut all ties with the Lannisters,” he says evenly. 

Lydia gives a small wince at his words, “They did, but I felt he would be of more use if I could influence some of his decisions.” 

A sharp smile takes shape on Chris’ face, “I feel as though we should continue this conversation in a more private location, do you not agree,” he asks. 

Lydia gives him a wicked smile of her own, “I think we have quite a number of things to discuss, it is so lovely to finally be able to converse with someone who understands the big picture.” 

Chris stands and offers his hand to Lydia, “I promise you that I am more than willing to entertain your ideas.” 

Lydia takes his hand and rises; this is exactly what she has been waiting for. It was stupid of her to not consider Allison’s brother as a potential ally in her plans, especially considering how similar Allison has always described him in relevance to herself. Lydia may not be willing to get her own hands dirty, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t willing to manipulate those around to do it for her. 

Lydia has the ability to change her situation for better or for worse, and if pulling Jackson along by a vice grip on his heart is the method she will choose, well then so be it.

### HARRENHAL

The sun is beginning to set over Harrenhal, a chorus of crickets accompanying the songs of the soldiers, who drink in merriment over another successful raid in the eastern Riverlands. The men spend their evening whoring, drinking and boasting to one another recounting their tales of grandeur. 

In contrast young Allison Targaryen can be found out in the training courtyard, practicing with her sword in an attempt to become as skilled with a blade as she is with a bow. 

In her younger years she used to complain when her parents forced her to practice for hours on end, learning the different bow draw techniques, and practicing on moving targets or horseback. But now, at this point in her life, she relishes having the ability to strengthen herself. 

Here at Harrenhal, Allison is not a Lady of the Crownlands; here she is a deadly warrior, here she is someone who should be feared. Her sister Kate has helped her discovered her strength, and now she refuses to relinquish one bit of it. 

Kate has shown her a world where she can fight alongside the men—no a world where she can lead the men. She is no longer a little girl, shelter away from the darkness around her. Now she is fully emerged in it, and is prepared to burn all of the taunting shadows within her reach. 

This new world she has entered is what she was meant to do. On a battlefield, staring down her notched arrow, Allison is powerful. When she stands tall as bodies fall around her; Allison feels alive. She feels as though she has a purpose beyond the frivolities of the court. She no longer spends her days stitching with the handmaidens or being subjected to the horror that is dancing lessons. 

In this moment, sun dipping below the horizon, sweat on her brow, and dirt streaking her face, Allison is happy. She will always prefer her bow; after all it is quiet, precise and in her hands extremely deadly. However, she can’t help but look down and smile at the sword in her hand. 

She gives it a satisfied twirl before sheathing it at her side. Regardless of what weapon is placed in her hands, Allison will always fight alongside her sister that much she knows of. Kate has always been supportive of promoting her pursuing her own agency, more so now that they are fighting side by side against the wolves of the north. 

Allison will never return to a world where she is dependant on Scott to ensure her own success. She will never return to a world where she needs her father to rescue her, or her mother to coddle her. Allison is embracing this new change in her life, and by the Gods she refuses to let it go. 

Allison will never let herself become a damsel to be rescued, one of the women in the stories who swoons over a prince, or feints at the sight of blood. Allison is a warrior and she is going to do whatever is necessary to win this war, not just for her family, but to prove to herself just what she is capable of. 

She slowly bends over to collect her things, giving a hiss at the pull of her sore muscles before beginning her walk back to her chambers. 

She is nearly there when she finds herself coming to quick stop outside of Kate’s and listening to two hushed voices arguing back and forth. It takes Allison a moment, but she eventually identifies the other person as Scott, her betrothed. 

“You don’t get to chose one or the other,” Kate hisses in a threatening tone. “If you are loyal to Allison, you are loyal to all of us. No running back home to hide behind your Bloody Gate and your mother’s skirts.”

“My father has sworn his allegiance to the Crown, I can’t just run around the Riverlands with his bannermen,” Scott argues back, his voice rising with each word spoken. 

Allison hears quick footsteps and a loud thud, given the yelp from Scott, Allison can only assume Kate shoved him into something. 

“Listen to me you insolent little prick, you are going to remain here and hold Harrenhal in our absence. If my father arrives and you and your men are not in this castle, no Bloody Gate will be to keep your little family safe. Do you understand,” she grits out angrily. 

Allison takes a deep breath and presses herself closer to the door. She knows Kate’s words hold validity, after all Scott cannot insist that she is his true love, yet turn his back on her family in their time of need. 

“Why am I to remain here,” Scott asks warily. 

“Because I told you to. Must I use smaller words in order to increase your understanding,” Kate asks condescendingly. 

“No… I understand. I will remain at Harrenhal,” Scott says in a defeated tone. 

“As will your bannermen,” Kate adds quickly. 

Allison does not hear Scott voice a reply, but given the loud exhale she hears, and the sound of footsteps retreating to the other side of the chambers, Allison can only assume Kate received some form of acknowledgement. 

She pushes herself off from the door and quickly runs to her room, shutting and barring the door behind her. She may have only heard a small piece of the conversation, but her mind is overflowing with unanswered questions. Where is Kate going; is she to accompany her; why does Scott continue to doubt their success; and better yet why was she not made part of this conversation in the first place. 

Mere minutes ago she had been exhausted, but now her mind is reeling and she doubts she will be able to find sleep before the early hours of morning. She releases a defeated sigh and sits down on her bed, taking out the necessary tools to begin meticulously cleaning her sword. 

Allison doesn’t know what awaits her in the morning, but she knows that whatever it is, she is going to meet the challenge head on.

### WHISPERING WOOD

In the Riverlands, south of Seagard and north of Riverrun, is the forest valley of the Whispering Wood. The woods are just south of the Trident’s Blue Fork River, and unfortunately for its current occupants, it is within striking distance of Peter Hale and his army; who are only miles north at the town of Oldstones. 

The Whispering Wood is currently being occupied by a large transient group of Ironborn; who cut off from the shore, are currently placed in a precarious situation. It is because of this that anxieties are mounting between the men, and numerous fights have begun to breakout.

From a young age it is engrained within Ironborn children, that their ships are their livelihood. They are to remain near the coast, and imminent death follows those who stray too far inland. The Whispering Wood is far from any Port within the Riverlands, effectively condemning these men to the slaughter. 

At the center of the encampment is the tent of Lord Commander Camden Greyjoy, in which his brother Isaac Greyjoy is currently seated alongside him. When Isaac had arrived, his brother had been hunched forward over the table, one his hands cradling his head, the other holding a letter. 

Isaac cautiously walks forward from his position at the tent’s opening and takes a seat opposite his brother, fidgeting in his seat uncomfortably. 

“Why did you summon me,” Isaac asks quietly. 

Camden scrubs his hands over his face in frustration, and when he raises his gaze, Isaac can see his eyes are red rimmed and brimming with unshed tears. “Father is dead,” he says with a crack in his voice. 

Isaac’s eyebrows make a valiant attempt to join his hairline, “Dead,” he says evenly, “Dead as in—“

“Dead as in Jackson Lannister put a sword straight through his skull,” Camden interjects with a roar. Isaac gives a full-bodied flinch and curls his shoulders forward whilst lowering himself further in his seat. 

Camden releases a long-suffering sigh, “I’m sorry Isaac, I’m not angry with you... here just read the letter,” he says as he tosses the letter towards the other side of the table. 

Isaac arches a sardonic brow in response but leans forward to grab the letter. He quickly skims the information in front of him and catalogues the important facts. His father is dead; Jackson Lannister has destroyed the majority of their fleet; and he is asking for the immediate surrender of the Greyjoy forces. 

The letter is short and to the point, but the language contained within the letter could only be written by someone prideful. The penmanship showcases Jackson’s privileged upbringing, and Isaac is almost certain that there are gold flakes within the ink; fucking Lannisters. 

Isaac looks up from the letter and glances at his brother, “The gold ink is a nice touch, it helps remind you just how much better they are than everyone else,” he says dryly. 

Camden gives a snort of amusement, “How much better they think they are,” he corrects. 

The two brothers share a chuckle and slip into an uneasy silence for a number of minutes until Isaac clears his throat. “Are we going to surrender,” he asks in a defeated tone. 

Camden gives an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders, “Honestly we are fucked plain and simple. Father swore allegiance to the Freys, and in turn the Targaryens and their Rebellion, we have to honour that.”

Isaac gives his brother a deadpan expression, “Honour? Ironborn don’t have honour—our house words are a declaration of us possessing absolutely no honour,” he says with a rising voice. 

Camden nods absently in acquiesce, though a smile is threatening to break out on his face. 

“Fuck the Targaryens. Fuck the rebellion. Let’s just go home before we all end up rotting in the fucking Riverlands,” Isaac says with a bite. 

Camden rubs a hand across his jaws in contemplation, “If we back out of our agreement with the Targaryens there won’t be any corpses to rot. We will all burn together, engulfed in flames.”

Isaac gives his brother a worried look, “The Targaryens are on the eastern borders, and there is no reason for us to be trapped here by some incompetent Tullys. We head for the shore, and we head home,” he implores. 

Camden gives an exaggerated wince at Isaac’s words, “Even if we reach the shore, I don’t think we possess the means to return home.” 

Isaac’s eyes go wide in response, “What do you mean we do not possess the means,” he asks evenly. 

“Mormont has control of the Bay, the bitch not only has a considerable fleet, but she knows what she is doing,” Camden grudgingly admits. “The Lannisters control the Sunset Sea and thanks to Alicia Mormont, the Starks control Ironman Bay.” 

“We’re trapped,” Isaac says quietly. 

“Aye,” Camden replies with a sad smile. 

Frankly Isaac is anything but broken up over his father’s death, but said course of events has really fucked him over in more ways than he expected it would. If the Ironborn remain trapped in the Riverlands, they are no more than corner prey waiting for the Rabid Wolf, Peter Stark, to come devour them whole. 

There is no negotiating with the Lannisters, at least with the one holding the Sunset Sea, Jackson Lannister’s letter made that much clear. However, perhaps they could try and appeal to the Starks, though by the time a raven would reach and return from Winterfell, Peter Stark would likely be using their severed limbs for kindling. 

“We send a raven to Mormont,” Isaac says in a hopeful tone. 

Camden mulls over the suggestion for a long moment, “You want us to negotiate, and or surrender to the woman controlling our waters,” he inquires. 

Isaac gives a small smirk, “No not her, fuck her and her damn fleet. We negotiate with the head of house. We send a raven to Ser Boyd Mormont.” 

Camden raises a questioning brow, “We negotiate with Master of Whisperers,” he says slowly. 

“Exactly. We go straight to the man who possesses the power to allow us safe passage. Alicia Mormont could say one thing, Peter Stark another, there is no guarantee that either would let us live. But the Master of Whisperers would go straight to John Baratheon, and we give him our surrender, and in turn he will call off his wolves and bears,” Isaac says with a pleased grin. 

Camden shoots Isaac a blinding smile and quickly rises from his seat, proceeding around the table to embrace his brother tightly. “You may not be much with a sword, but you certainly have a sharp mind. Send a raven immediately. House Geyjoy offers its surrender in exchange for safe passage for all Ironborn back to the Iron Islands.” 

“I just really possess zero desire to die within the week,” Isaac says plainly. 

“And I am sure all our men share the same desire as you little brother,” Camden replies. 

Isaac gives a small shrug and releases his brother from the embrace, “If saving my hide saves theirs then so be it, but at the end of the day I am looking out for you and I.” 

Camden gives him a warm smile and ushers him out of the tent in order to send the raven with haste. Isaac steps out into the cool night air, and strides purposely towards caged raves; this is not a task that can wait. 

His brother was right, in both his insult and compliment. Their father had always viewed Isaac as a throw away, a concession prize, to the perfect son that is Camden. As such, Isaac never had the same training with the sword, or axe, nor had he ever received naval training. Instead he had spent his days reading, attempting to weaponize his wits in order to survive. 

Every time Camden or Erica left on a raid, he asked them to procure him new reading material, something to occupy his time. Naturally many of the topics had been over his head, or he simply held no interest for them. Nonetheless Isaac was quite proud of his wits, even if they were often overshadowed by the accomplishments of his older siblings. If Isaac pulls off this plan, the Ironborn will be singing his praises until the end of his days, and that is a welcomed thought. 

It isn’t until Isaac sees Matt that he stutters steps and his blood runs cold in realization. Matt had cut a deal with the Targaryens, their soldiers in exchange for the ousting of their father, and Matt’s legitimacy. Once Isaac writes this letter, the Greyjoy soldiers will be heading home, and Matt will remain a bastard, despite everything they had worked towards. 

Isaac doesn’t want to be the one where Matt’s blame will be placed. In all honesty he should blame Jackson Lannister for being more effective than the Targaryens at getting the job done. Regardless, Isaac knows that someone will have to face Matt’s ire, and he wholeheartedly volunteers to not fill that position. 

Isaac shoots his half brother a guilty smile as he approaches, and attempts to hurry past him as inconspicuously as possible; he fails spectacularly. 

“Where are you hurrying off to,” Matt inquires, suspicion lacing his tone.

Isaac gives a small shrug, “Just sending a Raven for Camden” he says in faux casualty. 

Matt steels Isaac with a hard look, “A raven to whom exactly,” he asks with narrow eyes. 

Well Fuck. Isaac knows he needs to stall, but frankly this type of quick thinking has never been his forte. Rash decisions, he can do that. Well timed quips, no problem; but appearing innocent in the face of inquisition, well one might as well sign his death warrant right now. 

“Father is dead,” he practically shouts in panic. 

Matt’s jaw drops in response. “Fuck off,” he says disbelievingly. In the face of Isaac’s words, Matt has all but stopped walking, going stock still at the shock of the news. 

“Thought you’d want to know,” Isaac calls over his shoulder, as he quickly ducks in between a number of tents, passingly through them in hopes of being out of Matt’s range once he has regained higher brain function. Once Isaac has drastically changed his path, he takes off at jog towards the ravens. 

Isaac feels for Matt, and his doomed existence as a bastard—really he does, to a degree. But at the end of a day, Isaac cares more for Camden then he ever will for Matt, and that is why he isn’t going to fail him, not now, not ever.

### THE TWINS

The cover of night had descended upon the Twins, and the activity of the day had finally died down, leaving only a small number of guards patrolling to walls of the towers and bridge. It was under this blanket of darkness that Erica Greyjoy quietly makes her way towards her intended goal. 

Erica has spent the past number of weeks watching Jennifer slowly sink her claws into their captive—the young Derek Stark. Erica is willing to admit then when he was first brought to the Twins, she was as willing as Jennifer to use him for her own gains; but now she has found her motivations shifted. 

She still has no qualms about using the young wolf in order to ameliorate her current situation, but she finds herself unable to view him a disposable resource. To say Erica is displeased with her current situation would be an understatement. 

Jennifer is slowly beginning to spiral into insanity, something she was most definitely not willing to experience first hand. A per her hosts Aiden and Ethan, well those two she best describe as pair of testicles; they put far too much stock in their ascribed value, despite the fact one good blow would render them utterly useless and irrelevant. 

Erica has no plans to remain here at the Twins, there are many things she wishes to experience before her life comes to an end, and marrying Ethan Frey is far from one of them. Erica vows that she is going to explore Westeros, hells she may even venture across the Narrow Sea to Essos. She could learn to fight with the Braavosi; she could marry a man from an exotic realm, or better yet she could have multiple men—all equally love struck—trailing after her. 

First thing first, she needs to secure the northerner before Jennifer can. 

Erica continues to wind her way through the dark corridors and waits, peering around a corner to ensure that no guards are stationed around the man’s cage. In the passing weeks the guards have grown lazy in their duties, just as the man’s will has been breaking within the containment of his shackles. 

Once she deems the coast clear, Erica strides purposely towards the cage and let’s herself in, advancing towards the northerner. He is leaning back against the post, his shoulders hunched forward, and eyes downcast in defeat. 

Erica knows he heard the sound of chains when she opened the cage, she can tell by his breathing that the man is awake; yet he refuses to acknowledge her arrival. Erica clears her throat, and spares him an expectant look. 

The northerner—no Derek—refuses to look at her, so she gives his feet a harsh kick in retaliation. 

He slowly raises his gaze, his eyes are cold and his face is void of emotion. “Tired of playing the voyeur,” he asks coolly. 

Erica can’t help but cringe at his words. She may have stood by and watched the questionable interactions between him and Jennifer, but quite frankly she was in no position to object, even if she felt so inclined. 

Erica tries to regain her composure and steels a hard look onto her face. “Perhaps you would be willing to consider me as an alternative opportunity to Jennifer’s earlier proposition. An opportunity that requires nothing from you but information.” 

Derek raises his brows in question, “Information regarding the Stark strategies no doubt? Hand over the lives of my sworn men and in return my debt is square and I am allowed to meander off on my merry way,” he remarks dryly. 

Erica gives a small shake of her head, “The information I seek is purely for my benefit alone.” 

Derek narrows his eyes in contemplation, “And if I were in a divulgatory type of mood, what exactly would it be that I might divulge to you? 

Erica makes a grand gesture of removing the keys to his shackles from her pocket, and twirling them around on her finger. “Do you know the way to King’s Landing,” she asks casually. 

Derek is visibly thrown by the question, and once he recovers he shoots her a condescending glare. “Of course I know the way to King’s Landing, I’m not a bloody halfwit.” 

Erica’s face lights up in a hopeful expression, “You would be able to take me to King’s Landing then.” 

Derek gives her a wary onceover, “What business do you have in the capital,” he asks cautiously. 

“Let’s just say the Twins, nor my arranged marriage are exactly conducive with the lifestyle I aim to live,” she supplies. 

Understanding begins to flicker across Derek’s face and he absently nods his head, “Ah, I understand now. You are just as much a prisoner as I am, the only difference is I am bound in iron and you are bound by a flimsy piece of parchment.” 

Erica gives a huff of annoyance, “Out of the two of us, which one is actually able to stand up and walk out of the Twins,” she asks in condescending tone. 

Derek tips his head in defeat, but a small smile is playing on his lips. “I can give you freedom, if that is what you desire. However, it would make a great deal more sense to head west towards my Uncle Peter’s location, than attempting to bypass the Tully, Targaryen and Arryn bannermen in the east.”

A dry laugh escapes from Erica, “Head west towards the Rabid Wolf, do you think me mad! I want to live, not get torn to pieces by you northern savages. We will travel east towards King’s Landing, or you can sit in this cage and rot in your own filth.” 

Derek releases a snarl at he words, but ultimately he knows she holds the cards in this situation. “If we manage to avoid the entirety of the enemy armies, and if we manage to actually reach King’s Landing, then you will release me,” he asks slowly. 

Erica nods in acquiesce, “I am a woman of my word. Take me where I desire to go, give me the freedom to live the life I desire, and I will do my best to ameliorate your own along the way.” 

Derek weighs her words for a long time, before he eventually meets her gaze once more and nods his head. “Get me out of these bloody chains and we have a deal.” 

Erica gives him a sharp smile and raises the keys in question, “Well let’s not waste anymore time then.”


	14. There's no magic in strong backs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. As previously stated, sorry about the wait. I am posting this today since I will be very distracted by the Germany match tomorrow. 
> 
> II. A nice welcome to all the new people who have started reading this fic since the last update; I update when I can, you are always free to voice negative and positive opinions in the comments, or spew out some theories, and I hope you enjoy the story up to the last chapter. 
> 
> III. I know the fic is going to be long and obviously will be a WIP for quite awhile, but some of it hasn't been written in order. I have done other scenes for later chapters already, in order to have them done when I had the motivation. I promise you I will not be abandoning this, and it will be seen out to the end. You may have to start waiting more than a week for each update, since chapters around going to start being 10-15k it seems. There are more viewpoints to cover at a time, and thus it will take longer to write. 
> 
> IV. If you find any mistakes in this, my apologies, I wrote the majority of it whilst hungover. 
> 
> V. At some point during my partying here in Brasil, I wrote out an outline and character list for a massive Avengers Teen Wolf AU universe (think all the movies) so when this is done you can read all about ironman!derek pepper!stiles rhodey!laura, or hulk!jackson bettyjanehybrid!lydia and abomination!matt, thor!kira clint!allison loki!nogitsune, or capsicle!boyd bucky!erica natasha!cora, fury!scott coulson!isaac, I apparently don't know how to write short fics.

### DUSKENDALE

The horses are beginning to grow restless, the sounds of their pawing hooves and teeth chomping on their bits, filling the loud silence that permeates the area. 

Stiles’ own mount is beginning to snort and toss his head, eager to get a move on with the proceedings. Stiles knows he is to blame for his horses actions, after all Sand Steeds are notoriously sensitive animals, and are in tune with any emotion their riders are experiencing. At this moment Stiles is a ball of nervous energy, caged in place and waiting to explode. 

Stiles spares a glance around at the surrounding soldiers, and sees that he is not the only man with a nervous mount, some are beginning to prance, others rising off their front feet in protest for the continued pressure on their faces, prohibiting their movements. 

The anomaly in the group, are the horses belonging to his uncle and his closest commanders. His uncle is calmly looking out at the horizon, watching his forces assemble on the proper flanks surrounding Duskendale; his blood bay mare Melisandre, is standing with her hip cocked, eyes closed and lip drooping—a perfect picture of ease and contentment. 

Stiles releases a shaky breath and leans forward, balancing over his horses shoulder, he moves his hands forward and slowly strokes them up and down his horse’s neck in a calming gesture. “Easy,” he says in a drawn out soothing voice, “It will all be over soon,” he adds quietly. 

Stiles’ horse flickers his ears back towards the voice, and after a few minutes of continued ministrations and urging, Stiles finds his mount quieting and his own nervous energy beginning to dispate. 

Stiles cues his horse forward and moves into formation beside his uncle, sparing him a shaky smile. 

Stannis gives the horse a quick glance, “He seems to have calmed down nicely, though I would recommend that you purchase yourself a nice mare if you ever plan on venturing onto a battlefield again,” he advises. 

Stiles furrows his brow, “Plenty of people ride stallions, besides mares are temperamental,” he argues. 

Stannis snorts and shakes his head in amusement, “All horses can be temperamental, the difference being that mares know when they have a job to do. If you and your army are attempting a clandestine attack during the night, a stallion will call out to other horses and give away your position. A mare knows what needs to be done and how to do it properly.” 

Stiles is about to dispute his uncle’s words, but a loud nickering from his horse towards Melisandre has him grimacing at the irony. All his horse receives for his efforts is pinned ears and a sharp nip on the shoulder from Melisandre. 

Stiles gives his uncle an anxious look, “He isn’t going to be a problem correct? This is my first time on a battlefield, I’d rather not have the odds stacked against me.” 

Stannis gives his nephew a small shrug, “He should be fine, just don’t expect him to behave. He will likely shy away from explosions, or possibly bolt all together. Just rein him in and dismount if you must.” Stannis gives a nod towards the sword sheathed at Stiles’ hip, “You have formal training with the sword. You are a Baratheon by blood, and we have gone over the strategy countless time. There is nothing to worry about.” 

Stiles anxiously rubs a hand over the back of his neck, “This is a guarantee then? We are going to win,” he asks shakily. 

Stannis shifts his gaze from his nephew to Duskendale below them, “We will win. Naturally soldiers will perish but that is war.” 

“Hundreds of men will not be going to home their families after today,” Stiles says quietly. 

“Thousands,” his uncle replies in a calm voice. 

Off in the distance a horn sounds, signalling the movement of the right and left flanks. The men upon the hill turn their gazes to look out over Duskendale below them, the sight is breathtaking; perfectly formed and spaced cavalry squadrons advance on Duskendale, none of the riders breaking rank or formation as they gallop towards the town. 

The plan, in Stiles’ opinion, had been impressive. Calvary units will ride into the town from both the right and left flank, eventually meeting in the middle. They will sweep through the outskirts and town center, cutting down all Targaryen soldiers they find. 

Once they take Duskendale, they will control all of the major ports within the Crownlands, effectively cutting Dragonstone—and thus the Targaryens—off from the mainland. This battle is not being fought to simply secure a position within a town; this battle is being fought to cripple the rebellion. By securing Duskendale, they can put an end to this war at the source. 

The cavalry squadrons have penetrated the outer defenses, cries of “Baratheon, Baratheon, Baratheon,” echoing out of the town below. It is impossible to follow the melee from their viewpoint, too many bodies, and too little light. 

“How do you control them, when they are out of your reach,” Stiles asks in an awed voice. 

“You follow through with your commands,” Stannis says simply. “If they loot, you remove their sword hands. If they rape, you castrate them. If they desert, you remove their heads.” 

Stiles raises his brows in shock, but his face carries an impressed expression. 

“Fighting alongside them on the frontlines also aids in controlling their actions,” Stannis supplies in a light voice. 

“Wait, what,” Stiles says quickly. “We are going down there,” he motions towards the raging battle, “Right now,” he asks in a panicky voice. 

“Stay close, and follow your instincts, they will keep you alive,” Stannis says plainly before unsheathing his sword and cueing his horse forward into a charge, the other men following suit. 

Stiles is frozen in shock for a long moment, before his brain’s fight or flight response kicks in. His uncle told him to stay close, and he has already done a marvellous job of cocking up the one order he has to follow. Stiles spurs his mount forward in an effort to catch up, pushing them forward into the thick of the cavalry charge. 

There are flashes of fires igniting throughout the town, the sounds of screaming women and children echoing through the streets, accompanied by the melody of horseshoes beating down on the cobblestone. The tell tale sound of clashing metal sings its own tune, as blood begins to flow and paint the streets below. 

Stiles finds that his senses are overwhelmed; everything has become second nature, his body running on its own accord, with him simply along for the ride. He doesn’t recall unsheathing his sword, but yet it is out in front of him blocking an attack from his left. He does not recall cueing his mount into a turn on the forehand, yet he spins and allows Stiles to send his sword straight and true through the throat of the offending attacker; hot blood spurting out and covering the young prince’s face. 

He continues to fight his way through the streets, directing his sword into any target he deems hostile. At this moment, the realities of his actions are far from his thoughts, his only focus being on his survival. He is not concerned with who these men are, or if they will ever see their families again; he is concerned with his own livelihood. 

There are horses galloping in every direction, many leaping into laterals in order to avoid crashing into one another. The men shout out warnings to their brothers in arms, Stiles finds his own voice to be one of them; he receives a wicked smile from a man who just dodged a spear that would have pierced his shoulder. 

The civilians are barricading themselves within their homes, a necessity if they want to live to see the sun rise on the horizon. The soldiers have been instructed to treat each body on the streets as a hostile, an unfortunate reality on a field of battle. Stiles spares a glance down towards the corpses lining the streets, and sees that not all of the innocents have been fortunate enough to escape the cold hand of death; ferried by a Baratheon sword, or a Targaryen, he does not know.

Stiles can see his uncle up ahead, at some point he had dismounted from his mare, and is now clearing a path through the Targaryen men with each blow being dealt by his sword. Stiles’ mind slowly disregards the chaos surrounding him and focuses in on the image in front of him. There is a smile playing at the corner of the man’s face, blood streaking his armour, and bevy of bodies in his wake. He seems to pass unimpeded, easily changing stances and parrying any attacks; the man is a sight to behold. 

Unfortunately, finding himself blinded to his surroundings, Stiles is caught off guard by the sign hanging outside of the Seven Swords Inn; the sign landing a hard blow to his shoulder, and effectively unseating him from the back of his horse. 

Stiles lands hard on his back, the wind effectively knocked out from his lungs, and his vision going dark around the edges. He desperately tries to suck air back into his lungs, falling into a coughing fit as he rolls over onto his side; coming face to face with the grimacing face of a steaming corpse. 

Stiles leaps back with a yelp and scrambles to his feet, holding his sword out in front of him towards the offending sight. He stands there frozen for a moment, his eyes wide and his breathing ragged. 

“He is already dead. Walk off the fall and move it along,” Stannis yells out from down the street, as he slashes his sword across the back of an attackers neck. 

Stiles looks up from the corpse, and quickly scans the area for his horse, who is unfortunately nowhere to be seen. He reluctantly runs towards his uncle and hopes that his mount hasn’t gone far. 

“As much as I am enjoying all this chaos and pain, what exactly is the game plan here,” Stiles asks whilst doubling over and rubbing his shoulder. 

Stannis levels him with a hard look, as he thrusts his sword over Stiles’ shoulder and straight into an approaching hostile. “Pay Attention,” he chastises, “We are in the middle of a battlefield, not prancing around at some ridiculous tournament.” 

Stiles chances a look behind and his face blanches, frankly that was far too close for his level of comfort. “Thank you,” he says with a crack in his voice. 

Stannis grimaces and shakes his head at his nephew, “Lord Rykker is hiding in his castle, we need to breach the Dun Fort and prevent his escape if we want to take this town before morning.” 

Stiles gives a wince as he rises but nods in acquiesce, “Lead the way,” he says with a flourish of his hand. 

Stannis snorts, but motions for him to follow, “Anyone who is still on his horse shall round up the fleeing men, the rest of you come with me,” he yells out to the surrounding forces, before turning and striding in the direction of the Dun Fort. 

Stiles glances around, and watches in awe as all the men jump into action, and repeat the orders amongst the ranks as they disperse. Despite the bodies covering the streets, and the numerous injuries sustained, the men continue to follow Stannis’ orders without question. 

Stiles has been fortunate. At this point he has simply sustained what he suspects to be a nasty bruise on his shoulder and a few cuts here and there, frankly much better than he had expected. He will be able to go home and see his family again; he cannot say the same for many of the men who bravely rode into battle alongside him. 

“What of the bodies,” Stiles asks his uncle quietly. 

Stannis raises his brows, “Don’t worry about them right now, we still have walls to scale, men to fight, and a lord to capture,” he says simply. 

Stiles takes a shaky breath and runs a hand through his hair. The stench of death is heavy in the air, and the streets are painted red with the blood of the fallen. Stiles looks down at himself, and sees his own armour is covered in a spray of it; how many men contributed to it, he does not know. 

The first harsh dose of reality begins to hit the young prince; it is easy to take someone’s life when you aren’t the one swinging the sword. These men had families, they had loved ones and lives they will never be able to return to. They could have been bakers, blacksmiths, poets; they could have achieved great things—if he had not run his sword through them. These are the very same men his father has spent countless hours trying to better the lives of; these are the very same men he is one day meant to rule over. 

Stiles wants this bloody mess to come to an end, but he doesn’t want to have take more lives. He doesn’t understand why these men continue to hold their allegiance to the Taragryens. He doesn’t understand why they can’t lay down their arms, and bend the knee to his father, the one true king of Westeros. He is covered in dirt, sweat and blood, his body is weary and his psyche is beginning to fracture. Stiles can’t help but wonder how is he meant to ignore the death surrounding him, and simply carry on in his endeavour to kill countless more men. 

He stands alongside these brave soldiers, and finds himself wallowing in self-pity over the fact he does not know how one properly disposes of those who have fallen in battle. Do they create mass graves; send them home to their families; how would one even identify them. It is ironic that this is the very same problem; one Peter Stark mocked him of suffering through months earlier. 

Stiles breaks out into a hysterical laugh and begins to draw the curious and questioning gazes of the surrounding men. His uncle who was in a hushed discussion with Ser Davos Seaworth, breaks off mid sentence and upon seeing his nephew, quickly stride over towards him and guides him away from the group with a hand on the back of his neck. 

Stannis pulls his nephew into an adjoining alley and crouches down to examine his face closely, “I am reluctant to admit it, but you are starting to worry me,” he says with a concerned tone. 

Stiles’ hysterical laugh has now tapered off into a giggle and he replies to his uncle’s question with a simple shrug and a smile. 

Stannis arches a questioning brow, “Are you alright,” he asks in a cautious tone. 

Stiles shakes his head, “I killed people,” he says plainly. “I Stiles Baratheon, first of my name, future king of Westeros, killed the very citizens I am supposed to be protecting.”

Stannis gives him a pitying look, “Stiles I need you to listen to me. This is not your fault; the circumstances are out of your control. Those men did not care if you were raised in the Red Keep, or in Fleabottom. They did not care if you had their best intentions in mind. All they cared about, was killing every man responsible for the attack on their home.” 

“Why didn’t they just surrender,” Stiles argues, “They could have laid down their swords and kept their lives.” 

“Because to them, you are the enemy. You are invading their home, you are giving the orders to attack, you are the hostile; not them,” Stannis says evenly. 

Stiles does not answer, he merely redirects his gaze to his boots; the flecks of blood staring back at him. 

Stannis releases a sigh, “Right now, you are doing what is necessary to survive. You are doing what needs to be done in order to protect your kingdom, and the loyal citizens who serve the true king. These men are standing in your way, and have done so with the knowledge that it may cost them their lives; their deaths may have come by your hands, but that does not mean that they need be stained by their traitorous blood.” 

Stiles slowly raises his eyes to meet his uncle’s gaze, “I killed people,” he says quietly. 

Stannis nods, “Yes you did. You killed the men who were in open rebellion against the Crown, and were a threat to the lives of the other citizens. You did not kill those men out of cold blood, or for your own sick amusement. You killed those men for the good of the realms.” 

“The good of the realms,” Stiles repeats slowly, mulling over the words. 

“Just as it is your right by birth to one day sit on the iron throne, it is also your duty to protect your citizens by all means—for the good of the realms” Stannis reasons. 

Stiles absently nods his head and releases a long exhale; a heavy silence hanging in the air between them. 

“Everyone is waiting on us, we should go back,” Stiles finally says after a number of minutes. 

“We will return to the others when you feel fit to do so,” Stannis replies. 

Stiles shifts his weight between his feet and looks down the alley back towards the direction they came from. “Scale the walls, kill the soldiers, capture Lord Rykker,” he says coolly.

Stannis nods in acquiesce, “Your father would be proud of you, you are doing well,” he says encouragingly. 

Stiles gnaws on his bottom lip, but once again meets his uncle’s gaze and jerks his head towards the end of the alley. His uncle sighs and starts to lead Stiles back towards the waiting men. “Stay close, and if for some reason you feel yourself slipping, for Gods sake say so,” Stannis commands. 

Stiles is silent as he walks alongside the men towards the Dun Fort. They move in the shadows, evenly though he doubts their arrival is unexpected. Stiles had expected his first take of war would be watching a battle unfold from the distance; he had been told that all the best commanders watch from the sidelines, manipulating the spectacle before them. 

The young prince hadn’t counted on charging into the fray, and brandishing his own sword against the rebels. He hadn’t counted on feeling their warm blood spray across his face, whilst watching the light leave their eyes. He had wanted to make his father proud, he had wanted to show that he was capable of doing what needed to be done. Now as he walks alongside the men, their shoulders bumping, he feels a hollow feeling in his gut; a feeling that he is not up to the task. 

He offers a shaky smile to the man to his right, earning him a blinding smile in return. 

“You ever rappel a wall m’lord,” the nameless soldier asks. 

Stiles gives a small shake of his head, “I can’t say I have ever had the opportunity,” he supplies with a weak laugh. 

A handful of men in the surrounding area breakout into a bout of laughter, “Don’t worry m’lord, we can spot you,” the soldier replies. 

“He ain’t no lord, he’s a prince,” shouts a soldier on his left. Stiles turns to examine the man, and sees a boy no more than 15 looking back at him. 

“Aren’t you a little young to be on a battlefield,” Stiles asks, his brow furrowing in concern. 

“Could say the same for you, m’lord,” a man on his right answers. 

“He ain’t a lord,” the same boy on his left shouts in objection. 

“Could say the same for you, m’prince,” The man supplies in a mocking tone. 

The light conversation has Stiles’ worry lessening, and for the first time in hours, he feels as though a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He has never met these men before in his life; and he doubts he would have ever had the opportunity to meet these men, had the war never come to be. These men are not lords who live in a castle, or sleep on a feather bed; they will never participate in tournaments or advise in his court; yet here they are willing to lay down their lives for him. 

They are willing to put their faith in him, and follow him up a wall and into combat against the men guarding the Dun Fort, despite him being green in experience. They are willing to stand alongside him shoulder to shoulder, and have enough faith in him to protect them, and help see them through to the sunrise. 

This is what his uncle was referring to. No one wants to take the lives of others, but there are men, like the ones surrounding him, who are counting on him to help ensure they return to their families alive. 

Stiles releases an easy laugh and throws an arm over the shoulders of the man on his right, “No need for titles,” he says recalling his father’s words the first time he met Derek, “I am here to add another sword to our numbers, not posture.” 

The men respond with a number of wolf whistles, “Lock up your sons and daughters, we have a bashful prince in our midst,” shouts out a voice behind him. A blush rises up high on Stiles’ cheekbones. 

“Oi hold on,” shouts the boy from his left, as he pushes his way up to Stiles’ side, “What you blushing for, got yourself a proper lady back in the capital,” he asks giddily. 

Stiles winces, “I have a lord, who may or may not be in the Riverlands…” he says, trailing off. 

The man on his right slings his own arm around Stiles’ waist, “How can he may or may not be in the Riverlands,” he asks in a confused tone. 

“Same way, he may or may not be dead,” Stiles says grimly. 

“What the tits are you doin’ in the Crownlands then,” exclaims the boy on his left. 

Stiles’ steels his face into a hard expression, “I need Duskendale to cut off the Targaryen forces, and I need Lord Rykker to find out if my lord is alive or dead.” 

“Fuck the Targaryens,” yells out a voice to his right. “They’ve been doin’ that themselves for years,” replies one behind him. Stiles can’t help but smile. 

Stiles strides with purpose for the remainder of the walk towards the Dun Fort, all the doubt he once held in regards to this venture, has now been replaced with sheer determination. He is going to scale these pathetic walls; he is going to cut down any man who gets in his way; and by the old gods and the new he is going to find Derek and bring him home. 

When Stiles and his group reach the outer walls of the Dun Fort, the first men have already released their rappels and are hurrying to take out any guards circulating on the top of the walls. Stiles hurries his way forward and spares a quick glance at the technique of the other men, before grabbing hold of a rope and beginning to ascend up the wall. 

He can barely make out the figure of his uncle up ahead, and Stiles hurries to catch up. There are a number of fresh corpses on the top of the wall, guards who have been recently removed from their posts. Stiles is able to advance quickly and quietly until he begins to make his way inside the castle, and encounters to conflict raging inside. 

There are men engaged in duels down each corridor he passes through, the clanging of meeting swords echoing throughout them. He parries the attacking blows, and strikes down the men when necessary; otherwise he bypasses the conflict and continues to rush forward on his way to the keep. 

In hindsight Stiles should have used more tact in his approach, something beyond charging straight through the doors and hoping for the best. Because of his limited foresight, he bursts through the doors to the keep and upon seeing no forms before him, is momentarily stunned into a frozen stance, right before receiving a blow to his face. 

He goes down hard onto the stone floor, and can feel blood welling up on the open wound on his cheek, courtesy of the right gauntlet being worn by the man standing over his form; Lord Rykker. 

Stiles begins to crawl backwards on his hands and tries to distance himself from the man; ultimately this will not be remembered as his shining moment of glory from the battle. 

“Lord Rykker, I presume,” Stiles says with as much courage as he can muster. 

The man raises an unimpressed brow at his prone form, “And you would be the baby Baratheon,” he drawls out. 

“It is customary to kneel before your Prince,” Stiles replies with a bite. 

“How rude of me,” Rykker replies before unsheathing his sword, the Prince curls in on himself, waiting for an inevitable blow. 

“At least you are aware of your shortcomings,” says an approaching figure, a formidable force accompanying him into the keep. 

Stiles releases a grateful sigh at seeing his uncle Stannis; a sight that has Lord Rykker giving a frustrated yell and stepping back and away from him. 

A number of men rush forward and disarm the lord, forcing him to his knees and into chains. Stannis spares Stiles a quick glance, and upon receiving a nod signalling his good health, proceeds towards the restrained man. 

“It has been far too long since the last time I had you in chains and was threatening to remove your head from your shoulders,” Stannis says with a frown. Rykker releases a snarl, but makes no effort to fight his captors. 

“Tell me Ser Davos, how many years has it been since we last had the pleasure of holding this man’s life in our hands,” Stannis inquires. 

“Twenty-five my lord,” he replies. 

“Twenty-five,” Stannis exclaims, “A lot has changed in twenty-five years. For instance this man behind me,” he says as he motions to a rising Stiles. 

Stiles raises a brow at his uncle and stalks his way towards the men, “It is nice to see you remembered how to kneel after all,” he says airily. Rykker redirects his gaze to the stones beneath him, and clenches his jaw in anger.

“One day you will be King, and you will be forced to make important decisions—consider this your first lesson,” Stannis says, as he motions a hand towards the kneeling lord and steps back allowing Stiles to approach closer. 

Stiles heartbeat quickens, but his face remains stony; an attempt to emulate the gaze so often found on his uncle’s intimidating visage. “I am going to keep this simple,” Stiles says slowly, “If you know anything of importance say it now, or consider your life forfeited.” 

Lord Rykker releases an amused snort, “I am loyal to Gerard Targaryen, not a little child like you,” he snarls. 

Stiles frowns, “Despite your bad attitude, I am feeling generous. You can save your life with any little piece of information; a battalion location, supply routes, valuable prisoners; any of these are good subjects." 

Lord Rykker refuses to answer, and for a long stretch the keep is completely silent. The soldiers are disciplined enough to not break rank, and Stannis and Davos are communicating in an entirely silent conversation with their expressions. Stiles grows increasingly more impatient as time progresses. 

Stiles eventually raises his brows and releases a put out sigh, “Well if you are not fond of talking, I suppose we might as well save you the trouble and remove that tongue of yours.” He turns to a man standing behind him, “Care to do the honours,” he asks casually. 

The soldier gives a wicked smile and unsheathes a dagger from his boot before striding towards the man. 

“You wouldn’t,” Rykker exclaims, beginning to fight the men holding him on his knees, “No wait—please stop—I can tell you what you want to know!” he yells in fear. 

Stiles makes no effort to stop the advancing man, and as such Rykker turns his pleas towards Stannis; the man looks upon him with complete disinterest. 

Just as the soldier grabs the lord’s head and prepares to pry open his jaw, Stiles speaks, “Derek Stark; where is he.” 

“The Riverlands,” Rykker shouts immediately, “In the Riverlands, I promise you.”

“Is he alive,” Stiles asks in a monotone voice. Rykker does not answer, but instead continues to grow more agitated by the dagger only inches from his face. 

“Do you want to keep your tongue or not,” Stiles spits out angrily, “Now answer me. Is Derek Stark alive or not.” 

Lord Rykker begins to shake, “He is alive. They are keeping him at the Twins, I promise you my Prince.”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Stiles says coolly. He turns his gaze to the man holding the dagger, “On second thought, don’t remove his tongue.” Rykker releases a sigh of relief. 

“Slit his throat, remove his head and place it on a spike along the coastal wall,” Stiles says with a sneer, “He can serve as a reminder, as to what befalls those who rebel against the Crown.” 

Rykker opens his mouth to protest, but no words are able to fall from his tongue before the dagger tears open his throat, allowing a wash of blood to pour down his front and onto the stones below him. 

The keep is quiet for a moment with only the sounds of chinking armour to break the silence that has descended. “You should wash up,” Stannis says, motioning to the blood and dirt staining the Prince’s attire. 

“Are you going to,” Stiles asks. 

The right corner of Stannis’ mouth gives a small quirk but fails to turn into a smile, “No, I am going to help the men prepare the funeral pyres on the beach.” 

“Oh, we burn the bodies,” Stiles says curiously. 

“Helps prevent an outbreak of disease, and it gives the men a pure death,” Stannis replies. 

Stiles nods his head in understanding, “I’ll accompany you to the beach then.” Stannis regards his nephew for a moment but ultimately begins to walk out of the keep, the men all silently following behind, despite no command being uttered; Stiles follows along. 

They travel in silence, allowing for Stiles to take in all the sights surrounding him. The castle halls are now empty, only blood and broken armour remaining as a reminder of the events that transpired. When they reach the outdoors Stiles is shocked to see that the streets that were previously filled with corpses, are now empty, a light rain attempting to wash away the evidence of the night’s actions. 

Only the bodies of the horses remain, Stiles spares a questioning glance at his uncle.  
“They go to a butcher, their meat can feed the families who lost their providers,” Stannis says with a grimace. 

Stiles quickly scans the area looking for any indication of his horse, but thankfully he does not see a body. “I’m sure he is fine,” Stannis says comfortingly. “It doesn’t matter where I end up, or how long she has been missing, Melisandre always makes a reappearance when it is convenient for her, and I have no doubt your own mount will do the same.” 

Stiles spares one more quick look before they turn towards the shore, he ultimately chooses to remain optimistic; no body means his mount is likely to be alive, whether or not he has decided to run back to King’s Landing is another matter entirely. 

When they reach the beach Stiles sees it is covered in waving Baratheon standards, the black stag dancing across the field of gold in the firelight of the nearby torches. Thousands of bodies lay stacked in sections on the beach, surrounded by bundles of wood. Stiles stands next to his uncle and watches as a number of men slowly make their way from pyre to pyre, lighting them as they go. 

The soldiers on the beach stand in silence, honouring the lives of their fallen brethren long into the early hours of the morning. It is almost as if time itself stands still under the cover of night, a blanket of darkness hiding the night’s events from the rest of the world. The only sounds are those of crackling fire and waves crashing onto the stone coastal walls along the beach. Stiles can only describe the scene as peaceful. 

Stannis, nor the other men, seek to break the comfortable silence that covers the beach and Stiles estimates that within an hour the sun will begin to rise. He had achieved what he set out to accomplish, but instead of pointing towards a new heading, he finds himself spinning in circles. 

“Now that we have taken Duskendale, what do we do,” he asks, his voice cracking with disuse. 

His uncle appears to snap from his trance, eyes moving from their fixated point on the flames, to the face of his nephew, “You return to King’s Landing. My men and I will spread out along the coast, hold our positions, and prohibit any Targaryen men or goods from passing between the mainland and Dragonstone.” 

Stiles furrows his brow, “We aren’t going to attack Dragonstone,” he asks in surprise. 

Stannis shakes his head, “Your father does not believe in being the instigator. He would rather give the Targaryens the option to starve themselves to death, or bend the knee, than see more blood spilled over this stupid war.” 

Stiles understands his father’s desire to limit the number of deaths, but he would rather sail towards Dragonstone and destroy the remainder of the forces in the Crownlands once and for all; he supposes that is his Lannister blood talking more than anything else. 

If he isn’t permitted to kill the Targaryens himself, he finds no reason as to why he cannot head west and retrieve Derek himself. He does not know if Rykker was being completely truthful, but honestly at this point he is willing to go out on a limb and utilize any lead he can follow. 

“Can you spare me any men, to take to the Riverlands,” Stiles asks. 

Stannis sighs, “I regret to inform you that I cannot allow you to travel west. Your father gave me very clear instructions: you were to help plan and fight alongside myself in this battle, and then return home to King’s Landing.” 

Stiles jaw drops in outrage, “I didn’t agree to come here so he could ship me back home,” he argues. 

“Unfortunately this is a decision that neither you nor I are able to make,” Stannis says evenly. “Though once you return home, I would suggest sharing your new found information with a confidant or two—perhaps a northerner who shares your concern for the wellbeing of the Stark lord.” 

Stiles raises his brows in amusement at his uncle, and a smirk is playing on his lips, “Though that is just a suggestion of course,” he says mockingly. 

Stannis shrugs, “I was told to send you home, not to ensure you would remain there.” 

Stiles gives a small chuckle, “Do you honestly think Lord Rykker was telling the truth,” he asks quietly. 

Stannis frowns and shifts his gaze back from his nephew to the coastline, eyes fixation on the spike sporting the head of Lord Rykker. “It appears to be a little late to procure a conformation of his claims.” 

Stiles follows his uncles gaze and settles his own on the sight, a small smirk playing on his lips. “He does seem to be indisposed at the moment,” Stiles says airily. 

On the horizon, the first signs of daybreak are beginning to make them known; a sight Stiles has never been so desperate to see. He has survived his first battle, and gained valuable first hand experience. He has learned that no amount of lessons will ever prepare one to handle themselves properly in the skirmishes on the battlefield. He has learned that despite his best intentions, not all men are as concerned with his well being as he is with theirs. 

War is not about which side is right or wrong, it is about who has the ability to outlast the other and remain standing when all is said and done. War is about killing your enemy before he can even consider how to best end your life. Fighting a war on neutral lands tests one’s skill and resolve, but fighting to protect your home and your people, tests your heart. 

Stiles has found that he is willing to lay down his life to protect those who believe in him and follow him blindly. However, he is also willing to cut down any man who serves as threat to the livelihood of the Crown or the people who serve it. Stiles is no longer a green soldier, a spoiled Prince playing at war. He has bled, and made others bleed in return. 

He has scaled the walls; he has killed the soldiers; he has captured Lord Rykker; and by the old Gods and the new he is going to bring Derek home.

### HARRENHAL

The first sign of morning light are beginning to vanquish the darkness of night from the sky over Harrenhal, a sight that normally has Scott Arryn waking from a good night’s rest. However, for the past week, since Kate and Allison Targaryen took a number of bannermen and travelled west, he has found sleep to elude him. 

Scott sits at the window of his chamber, and looks out at the horizon whilst scrubbing a hand over his sleepy eyes, another countless yawn escaping from his mouth. Another sleepless night worrying about Allison, he still doesn’t understand why he was forced to remain here. 

Harrenhal is an impenetrable fortress, the only thing that could possibly destroy it would be Dragon fire, and quite frankly he doubts any of those will be soaring through the skies anytime soon. Gerard Targaryen should be here on the morrow, and then he should be free to leave and go back to the Eyrie—or go west and find Allison. 

Scott releases a loud groan over his complicated life, and vows to never allow his children out of the Eyrie before their twentieth name days. He slowly rises from his seat by the window and after giving an exaggerated stretch, exists his room and starts his journey towards the main courtyard; if he is going to be awake, he might as well go do something useful. 

Harrenhal is truly built on a massive scale, and as such he does not come across any other wandering bodies, the guards on the walls and near the gates are quite possibly the only beings awake besides he; all of them standing completely still and straight, examples of the perfect soldier, never moving from their positions. 

Scott can’t help but smile at how well disciplined his men are, after all that is a reflection on him as a leader. He makes his way from the courtyard towards the stables and grabs two apples from a basket as he goes—one for himself, and one for his horse. There is nothing for him to do here but ‘hold the castle’ so he deems a ride a suitable alternative to sitting around for the entirety of the day. 

When he reaches the stables he finds the horses whinnying loudly for their morning grain, the more ornery ones kicking at the walls and tossing their heads in impatience. It seems a little odd that none of them have been fed yet, but then again there is nothing wrong with the stable hands sleeping in every now and then; it won’t kill the horses to wait another hour for a few scoops of oats and some flakes of hay. 

Scott leisurely strolls down the stable alleyway whilst whistling a casual tune, continuing to head in the direction of his own mount, occasionally reaching out to run a hand over the nose of a horse or two. The young lord’s sleep deprived state had rendered him oblivious to the nature of things surrounding him: none of the stalls have been picked within a number of hours, water pails are almost bone dry, and a number of stalls which should contain the more valuable Destriers, are completely empty. 

When Scott reaches his own horse, he finds him to be walking circles in his stall, clearly agitated by some unknown force. Scott frowns and enters the stall, extending a hand out to towards the horse in a calming gesture. Scott spends a number of minutes attempting to calm the gelding, before he is willing to stand and allow the young lord to approach him and give him the apple. 

“See that’s not so bad,” Scott says quietly, as the horse contently munches on the apple. Scott crosses his arms over the horses back, and rest his head on them, breathing in the scent of horse and hay. He can almost feel his body beginning to give into the notion of sleeping, when a loud bang has the horse jumping sideways, and Scott falling face first in the straw below. 

“Fuuuccckk,” he whines out rubbing a hand over his more than likely bruised face. When he turns over onto his back, there is a shining spear merely inches from his face, a dangerous women dressed in golden armour holding it there. 

“Can I help you,” Scott asks warily. 

The woman snorts but makes no effort to remove the spear from his face, “Are you Scott Arryn, heir to the Vale,” she asks casually. 

“Err… yes,” Scott supplies. 

The women’s face breaks out into a sharp grin, “Well then yes, you can make yourself of great assistance to me,” she says. 

Scott looks upon her sceptically, “If you don’t mind me asking, who are you,” he inquires in a confused tone. 

The women gives a snort of laughter, “Princess Kali Martell of Dorne,” she answers. 

Scott’s face light’s up and gives her a smile, “My grandmother was a Martell,” he states, “Would you… umm… mind removing your spear from my face,” he asks tentatively. 

Kali gives a sharp whistle as she withdraws her spear and takes a step back. Scott releases a sigh of relief. However, his relief is short lived as a number of dornishmen walk forward and manhandle him forward onto his knees, pulling his arms behind his back. Scott attempts to fight them off, but they quickly place him in chains and throw him forward on his stomach; his face pressed into Kali’s boots. 

“Throw him onto a horse and let’s get a move on. The sooner we reach King’s Landing the better,” she commands. 

The men immediately jump at her orders and Scott is picked up, carried out of the stall and thrown over the withers of someone’s mount. 

Scott can feel the blood rushing to his head as he hangs off of the side of the horse, and in his current state he has no doubt that he will soon lose consciousness. He has no idea why a Martell would be interested in removing him from Harrenhal, let alone in such a barbaric fashion. Is this meant to be some kind of clandestine rescue attempt? Is his father paying for her to bring him back home? Do they think the Targaryen men abducted him? 

“Wait,” Scott calls out for Kali as stride past the horse and towards her own pawing Sand Steed. 

Kali pivots on her heel and turns to look at him, amusement clear on her face. “Yes,” she asks in an amused tone. 

“What did I do, why are you taking me,” Scott asks quickly in a panicked voice, the blood pounding in his head. 

“A word of advice, you live longer if you don’t piss off the Lannisters,” Kali says simply, before turning back around and leaving Scott metaphorically, and literally hanging. 

“Fuck,” Scott says to no one in particular, as his vision finally clouds over dark, and he feels himself slip into unconsciousness.

### KING'S LANDING

The sun had finally risen beyond the horizon, and was covering the city of King’s Landing under a golden blanket. The Red Keep is starting to awaken and turn into its usual hive of activity, as the servants begin to rise and start their duties. The Small Council chamber sits empty, bar one man; Danny Martell. The previous night he had received a summons from the Master of Whisperers, asking him to be at the chamber for sunrise. 

He sits reclined back in his seat, with his feet propped up on the table. His hands are clasped together and resting on his stomach and his eyes are closed, as he basks in the warm morning light. Danny had been waiting for almost and hour now; apparently the Master of Whisperers has difficulty keeping to his own schedule. 

The heat of the sun’s rays are slowly lulling Danny back to sleep, and he can feel himself drifting in and out of consciousness, when Boyd Mormont opens to chamber door and strides into the room. 

“Was it necessary to have this meeting so early in the morning,” he asks without opening his eyes, “Some of us were up late last night.” 

Boyd walks over to the table and takes his usual seat, “My apologies, I did not realize you had moved on from Jackson Lannister so quickly,” he says with mock apology in his tone. 

At this Danny cracks one eye open and frowns, “Jackson Lannister isn’t my type,” he says dryly. 

Boyd leans back in his chair and smiles, “Once again my apologies. I merely presumed that you two were quite close to securing a betrothal.”

The two men sit in silence sizing each other up for a long moment. “And what would have given you that idea,” Danny asks cautiously. 

Boyd flickers his gaze to the seat of the Hand of the King, before once again directing it back to Danny. 

Danny follows his line of sight, and releases a long sigh. He had told Jackson to keep their relationship a secret, after all it is rare that highborn are able to pursue anyone without it becoming the latest gossip amongst the courts. Danny wanted to keep their relationship private—well as private as realistically possible. 

Of course Jackson was unable to keep his mouth shut. Of course Jackson went to his uncle and sought out his council. Likely demanding a betrothal. Danny has no objection to marrying Jackson, but the two of them are young, and he has no motivation to pack up and leave Dorne forever—at least not at this point in his life. 

Boyd leans forward in his seat and rests his forearms on the table. “I think it would be better if from this point forward, we just assume we both know each others dirty secrets.” 

Danny chews on the inside of his cheek and mulls over the proposition for a moment. He eventually drops his feet from the table and leans forward, extending his hand outwards towards Boyd. “Assume we know everything, but bring up nothing,” he proposes. 

Boyd smiles and shakes his hand, “Perfect, now tell me your opinion on this,” he says before tossing Danny a letter. 

Danny raises a brow in question but grabs the letter and starts to quickly scan the content. Apparently the Greyjoys wish to surrender following their massacre at the hands of the Lannister fleet; Danny can’t help but swell will pride over Jackson’s victory. 

The obvious choice is to accept the surrender, especially since the Greyjoys are in no position to continue fighting this war. Why the Master of Whisperers needs his opinion to confirm that is puzzling. Danny knows Boyd is not only intelligent but also resourceful; there is no reason for him to be questioning such a simple matter. 

Perhaps he is asking his opinion to get a feel for how his father does business, after all Doran Martell is the acting Hand of the King whilst Parris Lannister is who knows where, doing who knows what; most likely sauntering around a battlefield crooning out The Rains of Castamere no doubt. 

Yes, it would make sense that the Master of Whisperers is trying to gauge how the Martells navigate the treacherous territory that is inter-realm politics in Westeros. Nonetheles, Danny is not going to leave a black mark on his father’s reputation, he has been well taught in these matters, and will do his best to show that. 

“I would suggest agreeing to their terms. They are weak, and simply want to return to their barren pile of rocks, why not allow them to limp back home,” Danny supplies. 

“I already have, sent the raven yesterday morning,” Boyd replies. 

Danny narrows his eyes, “Then what exactly are you wanting my consultation on,” he asks sceptically. 

Boyd shifts in his seat, “You know as well as I do, that even the spies in Westeros employ their own.” Danny nods his head in understanding. “I am asking your opinion on the likelihood that the Greyjoys will indeed be able to make it home, before the Targaryens are made aware of their actions.” 

Danny winces, “I’d say weak odds at best.”

Boyd sighs and rubs a hand over his face, “That is what worries me.”

### THE TWINS

The sun is beating down over the Twins river crossing, heating the strewn about bodies, coating the shores of the Green Fork and the walls of fortification. The stench of rotting flesh is thick in the air, and ravens are circling in the sky and feasting on the rapidly bloating bodies. 

The House Frey banners have been torn from their posts, and in their place, the banners of House Bolton; a flayed man on a field of pink, have been raised instead. Bolton soldiers saunter through the wreckage, kicking loose stones, looting corpses, and singing songs in celebration of their victory. Ennis Bolton is kicking a soldier head back and forth with a number of his men, shouting out new rules to their makeshift game as it progresses. 

In contrast to the celebration taking place throughout the Twins, lord Deucalion Bolton is all business, and rapidly making his way down into the dungeons below the fortifications. He had received strict orders from Peter Stark to not only take, but also hold the river crossing, and frankly he has no plans of failing to achieve anything less. 

He and his men have done an entire sweep of the two towers, and the nearby lands, yet they have found no sign of Derek Stark, except for a cage that apparently held him; according to the claims of a number of Frey men, though men will say anything when their lives are threatened. 

Deucalion releases a frustrated sigh, and enters into the dungeons. Before him, raised up on two X shaped structures, their hands and feet tied to each individual point are Aiden and Ethan Frey. 

Deucalion looks upon them in disgust, “Have they said anything remotely useful yet,” he asks coldly. The guards shake their heads. 

Deucalion walks towards them, eyeing up the two men before him. He withdraws a dagger from its sheath and lightly presses it against the skin below Aiden Frey’s collarbone. “Where are the two women,” Deucalion asks. 

The guards share an anxious glance, “There was only one my lord,” a soldier replies. 

Deucalion raises a brow in amusement, “Only one,” he muses, “Do tell, which of the wenches managed to escape,” he asks. 

“The highborn from the Reach is locked in her chambers, my lord… but we have been unable to locate the ironborn,” the soldier supplies. 

Deucalion hums in contemplation as he pushes the dagger down and watches blood gather at the surface and drip down from the blade. “Curious,” he says after a moment. 

Deucalion pushes the dagger down hard, causing Aiden Frey to scream out in pain, and he careful drags it along the length of the collarbone. “Find my brother, and tell him I have a job for him to do,” he states with a wicked smile, as he scans his eyes over the torn flesh.


	15. A man without friends is a man without power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Sorry for the late update, but it is quite easy to get distracted at the world cup, also I am in slight mourning over Suarez leaving LFC, so I obviously had to drink for that, and for Germany winning... so if some of this has issues, my slightly inebriated brain apologizes.
> 
> II. Do I need to add top!derek bottom!stiles preemptively to the tags for you guys? Is it necessary? Do you want them? Do people find them helpful?
> 
> III. Freddie Stroma is the face of Camden Greyjoy in my mind... so if you are wondering what you should be picturing, that is your answer

###  EAST OF THE GREEN FORK

Along the western bank of the Green Fork River, just several miles off of the King’s Road, Erica Greyjoy and Derek Stark are travelling through the Riverlands on their way to King’s Landing. Derek had honestly expected this journey to be much quicker and easier than it is progressing to be. 

Despite freeing him from the heavy chaffing chains, Erica had then bound his hands together with rope, and seen it fit to lead him along like a pet. He was not permitted to arm himself with a sword, since she was still questioning his sincerity in vowing to help her. Instead, he had traded one prison for another; this one at least provided fresh air, though Erica’s constant attempts at conversation were excelling at polluting it. 

Every few miles or so Derek attempts to ease his way back west, towards his uncle and away from the approaching hostile forces. Unfortunately, despite her need for constant conversation, Erica always seems to notice after a few minutes, and with a harsh jerk of the rope steers him back towards the east. 

Derek takes a moment to look up at the sun, and by his calculations, they had passed Stonehold roughly two hours ago. He figures now is as good a time as any, and slowly begins to drift west every few yards. It takes longer than usual, but eventually he feels the familiar jerk, and he turns to see Erica staring him down with a steely glare. 

“Can you stop trying to run away for five bloody minutes,” Erica huffs in an annoyed voice. 

Derek scowls and tries to turn back west, only to experience a sharp pain in the back of his head, courtesy of a small rock thrown by Erica—if the faux innocent expression is anything to go by. 

Derek sighs, “We have been over this countless times, over countless miles. If we want to live, we need to go west. No one in the east is looking for us, except the enemy.” 

Erica cocks her hip and crosses her arms, a distinctly unimpressed expression covering her face. “Then let me think about this for yet another countless time… hmm… nope still going east,” she says with a smirk. 

Derek groans and scrubs his tied hands over his face, “Gods you are worse than my baby sister,” he moans. 

“Then she sounds like a remarkable young woman,” Erica drawls, “Now get moving, we don’t have time to waste.” 

Derek sighs but eventually gives in and keeps trudging east and south towards King’s Landing. He knows east is a terrible decision, after all he wasn’t lying when he said there was no one waiting for them on the eastern front. All of the Stark men are west of his location; the Lannisters should also be west and south; and if he knows the tactics used by Stannis Baratheon—and he does—then that man is probably leading his troops straight up the eastern shores. 

Derek honestly doesn’t know how this is going to end well, knowing his luck, they are likely to get picked off by a Targaryen patrol within a day or two. Derek tilts his head back to look at Erica behind him, “We should steal some horses,” he suggests, interjecting into Erica’s constant stream of tales being spun. 

“No,” Erica says flatly. 

Derek rolls his eyes, “Horses make us quicker, and harder to attack,” he argues. 

“Horses make noise, and need to be fed,” Erica says, a tone of finality in her voice. 

Derek tilts his head back forward and grits his teeth in irritation, “Of course I would be stuck with the pirate who doesn’t want to steal anything,” he mumbles angrily. 

“Stop turning every little thing into a catastrophe,” Erica singsongs back to him. “If someone comes upon us, we will kill him or her before they can talk, as simple as that,” she adds nonchalantly. 

Derek glances over his shoulder and raises a brow, “I am going to assume you do not have any formal training with a sword, and since my hands are tied... neither of us will be much use in the face of an attack. Not to mention the fact we are marching mere miles from the King’s Road, which is the route with the heaviest traffic in all of Westeros,” he says dryly. 

“Why are you so against going to King’s Landing,” Erica asks curiously. 

“Because all of the northern troops—,” Derek starts, only to be cut off by Erica seconds later. 

“You keep changing the subject,” Erica deftly points out. “Instead of suggesting new routes, safer routes, you keep trying to go the complete opposite direction. So my question is, what are you so keen on avoiding,” she asks with a smirk. 

Derek clenches his jaw and stares off at a clump of trees on the horizon, “I’m not avoiding anything,” he says. 

Erica snorts and pats him on the head, earning her a scowl for her efforts. “Whom are you avoiding then,” she asks casually. 

Derek feels the tips of his ears grow hot, his mind flashing back to the heated kisses, and desperate touches that took place in the Prince’s chambers months ago. 

“Aha!” Erica exclaims. “I knew it. I knew you were avoiding telling me something worthwhile. I suggest you get talking, or else your head is going to become acquainted with every stone from here to the Stormlands.” 

Derek gives her a withering look, but it fails to break her resolve. After minutes of continued pressuring, he finally breaks. “Stiles Baratheon,” he says with a grimace. 

“Fuck off,” Erica exclaims. “Did he finally manage to make his way through all the realms? I thought your sister was his claim to the North—or are you filling that position,” she says with a giggle. 

“Laura,” Derek asks in a confused tone, “What in the seven hells are you going on about?”

Erica narrows her eyes and takes a moment to think, “No, Cora I believe. The one who fainted at the sight of blood during a tournament, and then swooned her way into his arms and his bed.” 

Derek’s face contorts into a sceptical expression, “Cora has only been out of Winterfell once, and that was for Laura’s… wedding. Wait—what do you mean his bed,” he asks in an irritated tone. 

Erica’s face falls minutely, “Hmm bad gossip then, useless Braavosi.” She releases a put out sigh, “He was apparently very intent on fucking his way through all of the realms, many times, with many different people, in many different positions; or he was the last time we spoke,” she says with a shrug. 

Derek stops mid stride and pivots to face Erica, “I’m sorry, he was fucking his way through the nine realms. Fucking his way through the nine realms, as in bedding a conquest from each realm,” he says, raising his brows in question. 

Erica examines her nails for a moment before looking up to meet Derek’s gaze. “How have you never heard any of this,” she says with a shake of her head. “Honestly you are lucky to have me around, just brimming with useful information.” 

Derek motions a hand out in front of him, “By all means, do tell,” he says in an annoyed tone. 

Erica smile, “He had plans to fuck someone in all the realms. He apparently was making a move for your sister, after kissing her back to consciousness,” Erica says with an exaggerated kissing face, “That would knockoff the North, though it appears that you seem to be filling those shoes now. Then from the Riverlands, he apparently took the maidenhead of one Heather Frey. Not much of an accomplishment if you ask me,” she says airily. 

Derek releases a groan as he turns back around, and keeps trudging his way forward, “Just stop talking,” he says in an unimpressed voice. 

“I used to be quite attracted to him you know,” she presses, following after him. “He never gave me the time of day; he said we had no spark, no burning fire, and that ‘we just weren’t meant to be’,” she says in a mocking tone. “Mind you, he was quite receptive to my advances when my hand was stroking his cock, but then again, that is most men,” she says with a shrug. 

Derek nearly chokes on his own spit. “Still don’t care,” he manages to grit out. 

Erica hums for a moment before continuing. “I heard something about a whore from some brothel in the Crownlands… or maybe it was in the Stormlands. Wherever it was, her name was Caitlin. I personally feel it shouldn’t count if you pay for it, but then again I don’t make the rules.” 

“Please stop talking,” Derek moans out in annoyance. 

Erica ignores his continued protests. “He has spent years chasing after the end of Lydia Tyrell’s skirts, I am surprised he never managed to get a hand up her dress. I always thought that if he threw her a big enough jewel, that would distract her long enough to get the deed done; apparently not,” she remarks. 

Derek stops in his tracks, “Lydia Tyrell,” he states slowly. 

“Oh yes, he has been madly in love with her for years—his beautiful queen, her hair kissed by fire, and mind blessed by the gods,” Erica proclaims in a lofty voice, one hand reaching to the sky, the other pressed over her heart. “Honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if he was riding his way to the Reach as we speak, rushing to save his lady love from the harsh realities of war,” Erica states, whilst gesturing a hand to Derek’s everything. 

Derek looks down at his form: he sees his breeches and leathers stained with mud, blood and most likely shit. His hair and beard are thick and growing longer by the day. His body is now covered in a collection of scars and wounds both healed and infected. He has lost muscle mass and weight in the face of his limited diet, and failing health. Honestly he wouldn’t share much interest in himself either. 

Derek sighs and looks back at Erica, “He is madly in love with Lydia Tyrell,” he says in a defeated tone. 

Erica smiles, “So it would seem. Unfortunately for him, she seems quite content to remain seated on Jackson Lannister’s golden cock,” she says with a cackle. “Don’t worry though, he has yet to knockoff Dorne, since Danny Martell has never given him the time of day; and he has never visited the Westerlands.” 

Derek releases a long sigh, “Is this merely gossip, or are these facts,” he asks evenly. 

“Stories mostly, though I imagine there is some grain of truth in each one,” she says comfortingly, whilst giving Derek a harsh pat on the back.

They start walking again, and cover another mile and half in silence until Erica once again speaks up. “Would you like to hear a true story, no lies, just facts,” she asks innocently. 

Derek is not remotely in the mood to hear any more tales of Stiles supposedly fucking his way through the nine realms. The young Prince had stood there in the corridor at King’s Landing, and proclaimed that no one had ever expressed his or her interest in courting the royal, before accusing him of treason. Either the Prince was lying about his conquests across Westeros, or all Erica has to share are tall tales as reliable as Targaryen genetics. The fact of the matter, is that Derek does not desire to be some conquest, some name to brag about. He is not some notch for the North, nor is he a plaything to be used for someone else’s amusement and social standing. 

Derek grits his teeth, “Fine.” He says curtly. 

Erica gives the rope a hard jerk and has him pivoting on his heel and facing her once more. “I need to see your face when you hear this tale,” she exclaims gleefully. 

Derek’s unenthused expression does little to hinder her excitement. 

Erica is practically bouncing on the balls of her feet in anticipation for his reaction. “Apparently, he accompanied his father on a trip to Essos, in order to form some kind of economic deal with the trade cities. When they were in Lhazar, a number of the sheep caught an illness and died suddenly. One of the maegi thought that the Prince was possessed by an evil spirit, and decided that fucking it out of him in a blood ritual was the best course of action. So she ended up throwing him down on the floor of a hut, and rode him until morning. In her eyes, and the eyes of the Lhazareen, they were now attached to one another for life—soul mates in the eyes of the Great Shepherd if you will. He was apparently enamoured with her, and wanted to bring her back to Westeros, he was going to domesticate her or something, but she kept trying to eat all of the whitecloaks,” Erica states casually, her face completely void of emotion. 

Derek takes a long moment to stare at Erica in exasperation. “That is the without a doubt, the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Possessed by an evil spirit, and they decide to fuck in the mud. That was the best you could come up with,” he says dryly. 

Erica breaks out into a fit of boisterous laughter, laughter so good natured that is draws Derek out of his foul mood, and has him bursting into his own fit of it. The two of them spend a number of minutes laughing, and shedding a tear or two over the tale. 

“You should have seen your face,” Erica says through a fit of giggles, wiping a stray tear from her eye. 

Derek is still shaking in silent laughter, but manages to reply, “Gods, eating the whitecloaks, really,” he says with a smile. 

Erica shrugs, “I said trying to eat, I didn’t specify if she succeeded.” 

Derek snorts in amusement, and looks out at their surroundings. He may not have planned to escape alongside Erica, nor is he overly fond of their current situation, but she does make a good point; he hasn’t exactly tried to work alongside her in bettering it, just fighting to make his point. 

“Do you have a map,” Derek asks her. 

Erica blushes and shakes her head, “Sorry, we left awfully quick, I didn’t want anyone to notice things were missing.” 

Derek rubs his hands over his head, “Its alright, we can figure this out.” 

Erica seems to brighten up at his words, “So you are going to stop ordering me around, and start working with me,” she asks hopefully. 

“This partnership has to go both ways,” he cautions, “I am not going to risk my life for you, if you aren’t willing to work alongside me.” 

Erica worries her bottom lip between her teeth but nods her head in acquiesce. “Fine, what’s the plan,” she asks with a shaky confidence. 

Derek flickers his face around them, “We need to get far away from this damn road,” he says, the command clear in his voice. 

Erica gives him a small smirk in response. “Move along then,” she says, shaking the rope around him, so it smacks him on his backside, mimicking the driving of a horse. 

Derek furrows his brow and releases a long sigh through his nose as he purses his lips. Grudgingly walking forward, setting a new course, a safer course, for them to travel. Erica may be a right pain in his ass, but frankly he isn’t fooled by the harsh image she is projecting. At the core of it, she is a scared young woman who is trapped, and alone in a place she does not know. They may be new found acquaintances, but Gods be damned if he is going to throw her to the enemy; they are in this together now. 

Erica is suspiciously quiet for almost an hour, when Derek’s peaceful thoughts are once again interrupted by her voice. “Any chance you want to hear the tale about your little princeling and a Khalasar,” she asks in a faux casual tone. 

“No,” Derek answers immediately in a clipped voice. “You have a very vivid imagination, and trust me when I tell you that I can fill in the blanks.” 

“Oh something gets filled, that’s for sure,” Erica says with a loud burst of laughter. 

Derek closes his eyes and starts counting to twenty in order to stave off his growing agitation; this is going to be a long walk to King’s Landing; he can only hope Erica’s awful attempts at storytelling are as eventful as it gets.

### OLDSTONES

At the North of the Blue Fork River, upon a large hill, lies the crumbling remnant of a once great castle. Pillaged and destroyed one to many times, this settlement is no more, and as such has fallen into disrepair and ruin. 

What remains of the once great towers is no more than waist-high crumbling stone pillars spotted with lichen. Weeds and grass grow freely up through the foundation, as most salvageable stones have been taken to repair barns, septs and holdfasts. 

The area surrounding the ruins is overgrown by gorse, bracken and thistle bushes among others that choke the ground and make passage almost impossible. In order to explore the desolate remains, riders must dismount from their horses and walk through, or wait for the animals to graze down the almost chest high plants. 

This ancient stronghold is currently being held by Lord Peter Hale and his impressive forces, at least until he is able to continue marching south to Riverrun. Peter had hoped to be at the Tully stronghold by now, but his orders from his brother continue to change. He was meant to turn around and go north, but was thankfully able to pawn that duty of on the Boltons. He was meant to ride east and deal with the Targaryens, but mercifully his conquest of Seagard had been good enough incentive to allow him to stay the course. 

On this day, Peter Stark finds himself seated in his tent starring at a letter from the Master of Whisperers, informing him that the Greyjoy men south of his position, in the Whispering Wood, are now allies. All that means to Peter is that his desire to kill is currently being micromanaged. 

The Ironborn are disorganized, ill supplied and frankly not cut out for an inland war. Though from what he has heard, Jackson Lannister not only decimated the majority of their fleet, but also put his sword straight through the skull of Quenton Greyjoy. It is moments like those where Peter truly understands what it means for a parent to be prideful of their child’s actions. 

Peter sees no reason why he should be disallowed to ride south and cut down the remaining Ironborn before the bastards can turn tail and switch sides in the conflict, at least another three times for good measure. Ironborn crave power by nature, anyone would if they were raised in a society that awarded them nothing and told them to take everything. Ironborn will always side with convenience, never ideals or titles. 

Deucalion Bolton holds the Twins, Jackson Lannister holds the Sunset Sea, and he is currently holding an impressive collection of weeds and crumbling stone; he really does deserve better. There is no reason for him to be forced to remain here, after all the letter did not dictate that he could not progress further south; just that he could not engage the Greyjoy men. 

More than anything it would be quite inhospitable of him to not introduce himself and his men to their new allies. During times of war, people of different classes and backgrounds need to stand together and embrace their fellow man; he would be doing a service to the realm really. 

And if when he arrives, the Ironborn takes up arms against he and his men, well then he has discovered their treasonous charade firsthand, and would be more than willing to do everything in his power to put an end to it. 

It is the most responsible option really, how could he possibly refuse to act upon it. If he doesn’t ride south, he not only opens up the possibility of a Greyjoy betrayal, but he gives the Tullys more time to fortify Riverrun prior to his—Gods help him—eventual sacking of the stronghold. 

A sharp smirk covers Peter’s face as pushes back from the table and rises in his seat. He quickly stride his way out his tent and towards the location of his commanders; tossing the letter into a passing fire with a flourish of his hand. 

When he reaches his commanders, he finds the men relaxing and drinking; he would discipline them if he honestly thought it would make a difference, but really he is the brain behind this army, not them. 

“Change of plans,” Peter exclaims loudly, “We are riding south for the Whispering Wood. The Greyjoys have surrendered and we are going to go greet them with open arms.” 

Lord Karstark raises a sceptical brow, “Open arms,” he says before taking another swig of ale. 

“Open arms,” Peter repeats. “They are meant to disclose to us any and all information pertaining to Tully and Targaryen strategy, and in return we provide medical support for their no doubt feeble men,” Peter says with a charming smile. 

Lord Karstark releases an amused snort, “Right… ask nicely first, stab second,” he says in a dry voice. 

“Precisely,” Peter replies in a dangerous voice.

### WHISPERING WOOD

Over the past week the Ironborn had gone from dejected, to hopeful, to ecstatic. The Master of Whisperers had written back to their formal surrender, earning them to ability to return home to Iron Islands, relatively unscathed and without major consequences attached to their minor rebellion. 

Isaac had pled a change in leadership under Camden as their reasoning, apparently the men in the capital saw this excuse as a viable one; if their quick response was anything to go by. 

The Ironborn in the Whispering Wood had sent ravens to their men across the Riverlands, ordering them to make camp here until they were fit as a group to leave the mainland and sail home. Isaac had seen hundreds of men flock to the wood each day, all as relived as the next. 

The mood had significantly lightened in the face of the good fortune, and Isaac was taking full advantage of his new found leisure time; now one hundred percent chance of imminent death free. 

He sits upon a stonewall watching an amusing scene unfold before him. His bastard brother Matt is once again attempting to mount and ride a large black destirer he had recently acquired; the result is side splittingly amusing. 

Each time Matt raises his leg to place his left foot in the stirrup, the stallion pivots on his left front foot and spins his hindquarters away, leaving matt to awkwardly fall forward and release a huff of annoyance. Isaac though he would lose interest in the proceedings relatively quick, but he has been observing for nearly ten minutes, and the sight has not lost its humour. 

“Someone come hold this fucking beast,” Matt yells out in frustration, as he jerks on the horse’s reins in anger. The stallion is not amused and pins his ears at the harsh treatment. 

A nameless solider walks forward, attempting to conceal his laughter as he takes the reins from Matt, and attempts to steady the horse. He receives no thanks from Matt for his aid. 

Matt then releases a loud huff and shoves his foot into the stirrup, rising up and dropping down into the saddle heavily, the stallion swishing his tail in annoyance. “Stupid beast,” he mutters under his breath, reaching down to help push his right foot into the far stirrup. 

“You can’t even get in the saddle, how are you going to get it onto a boat,” Isaac goads. 

Matt grinds his teeth and sends his brother an icy glare for the comment. “Who said anything about a boat,” he shoots back, Isaac furrowing his brow in confusion. 

“Alright, get out the way,” Matt barks at the helpful soldier, who walks away rolling his eyes. He wiggles in the saddle adjusting his seat and squeezes his legs to urge the horse into a walk; the stallion refuses to move. He starts to apply pressure with his heels, and eventually starts kicking the horse; the stallion throws his head in annoyance, and lays his ears flat. 

Isaac is outright laughing, earning him a harsh glare from Matt. “Where in the seven hells did you find that thing,” Isaac asks in an amused voice. 

“I got him off a Frey soldier,” Matt says in a huff, in between kicks to the horse’s side. “The stupid shit didn’t even know what a destrier was, let alone the fact he was holding the reins to one.” 

“Or maybe he knew what a right prick this one was,” Isaac suggests with a waggle of his brows. 

“Someone get me a crop,” Matt yells out in anger, kicking the horse with all his strength. The stallion squeals and kicks out at the ministrations, jarring Matt in the saddle. 

“I think you are supposed to get him to walk forward,” Isaac calls out in a mocking tone. Matt is not amused that everyone is enjoying his misadventures, which only prompts Isaac and the gathering crowd to fall into another fit of laughter. 

One soldier throws Matt a crop, which he catches and then proceeds to crack down on the stallion’s hindquarters, each strike echoing a loud crack through the woods. Each strike has the stallion jumping sideways to avoid the pain, spinning in circles and tossing his head in confusion. 

The smile begins to slip from Isaac’s face, “Matt,” he yells out in worry, “Matt stop—he doesn’t understand what you are asking him.” 

The watching crowd begins to split into two factions. Some men look upon the spectacle in disgust and turn away from the proceedings. Others are cheering for the bastard, encouraging him to stay in the saddle, and make the beast pay the iron price. 

The stallion gives a jarring leap, a last ditch attempt at escaping the constant pain, and manages to throw Matt from his back. Matt hits the ground hard but manages to keep hold of the reins, refusing to let go despite the horse dragging him across the ground in a panicked state. Matt gives the reins a hard jerk and scrambles to his feet. 

He keeps a strong hold of the reins and once again takes up the crop, repeatedly striking the horse on any piece of flesh he can connect with. The horse is desperately scrambling away, tripping over the divots in the ground, and calling out to some unseen entity in fear. The whites of his eyes are glaring back at the watching men, as he repeatedly tries to escape the beating. 

“Matt,” Isaac screams, “Stop—leave him be,” he urges, rising from his seat on the wall and rushing forwards to the middle of the spectacle. Isaac runs forward and tries to pull Matt back and away from the horse. Matt tries to throw Isaac off of him, but ends up twisting around in anger and raising the crop towards the young lord. 

“If you so much as touch him, I will have your head Bastard,” Camden calls out, the audience parting, and the now Lord of the Iron Islands striding his way through to the centre. 

Matt is wild eyed and huffing, but his raised arm does not find its mark on Isaac. Instead it remains suspended in the air and slowly drops down to his side. 

Isaac is standing stock still, though his face is frozen in a furious expression; outraged that his brother would ever aim to strike him down. 

Camden forcefully jerks the reins out of Matt’s hand and pushes them towards Isaac, “Take the damn horse if it means so much to you,” Camden spits out in annoyance. 

Camden scruffs Matt by the back of the neck and tears him away from Isaac, shoving him forward and stalking away from the surrounding men; Isaac can’t say he pities Matt for the punishment he is about the endure, but he wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. 

Isaac looks back at the horse and spares it a pitying look. The destrier is sweat soaked, and its sides are heaving. Its eyes are still wide in fright, and despite Isaac’s attempts to pull on the reins and coax it forward; the stallion has his feet planted a wary distance away. A number of painful raised welts are beginning to show on the stallion’s hide, some clustered together in large groups; no doubt a hindrance to movement. The areas Matt had been able to strike repeatedly, such as the left shoulder and neck, are sporting a number of open wounds, blood sluggishly flowing out of them. 

Isaac takes a deliberate step forward, only to have the stallion throw its head up and leap to the right with its tail tucked low, no doubt expecting another blow to follow. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Isaac says quietly, “I will make you feel better, I promise.” 

It takes Isaac almost thirty minutes of cautious steps, deterred eyesight, and soothing voices, for the stallion to allow him to approach and lay a hand upon him. As he slowly walks the stallion towards their makeshift corrals, he notices a jarring stride on the left front, no doubt an injury sustained from the steadily appearing welts marring the flesh. 

Isaac runs a soothing hand over the horse’s withers, giving an experimental scratch at the area along the mane. “I’ll get you fixed up, and good as new,” Isaac says softly, “I’m sure we can do something about the swelling.” 

Isaac doesn’t expect a reply, but he is going to take the horse’s loud sigh as an indicator that the animal is obviously in agreement.

### FAIRMARKET

Located along the midpoint of the Blue Fork River of the Trident, is the town of Fairmarket. Fairmarket is of modest size, and serves a notable river crossing, often used by travelling parties across the Riverlands. It is both a leisurely five-day ride from the Whispering Wood, and Oldstones. 

Allison Targaryen is travelling through the town, alongside her sister Kate and an army of 35,000 Targaryen troops. They had left Harrenhal just over a week ago, and traversed their way through the countryside, interrogating and looting as they went. Any individuals who proclaimed loyalty to the Tullys and the rebellion were spared, those did not, were subjected to a terrible fate. 

Allison was keen to escape Harrenhal and experience the war first hand, but this was not what she had been expecting. She had been waiting to form formal battle strategies, lead her troops, and ultimately make a difference. Instead she is following the lead of her sister, and that is a chain of command that she finds irksome. 

Kate by definition is a capable leader. The men respect her, she is skilled with a sword and bow, and she never fails to accomplish what she sets out to do. However, it is her methodology that Allison objects to. Kate has yet to engage in a battle; she has led her men through numerous raids and terror campaigns where no souls are left to tell the tale, but the woman is not a strategist. 

Her plans are simple; they are rushed; and frankly Allison can’t help but feel, that they fall flat in the creativity aspect. It takes no skill to send a thousand men to raid and pillage a village. It is no hardship as a leader to burn a town and allow your soldiers to rape the survivors for their reward. 

Allison knows Kate is her older sister, but she feels that she should be leading the army, not Kate. Kate may have been raised a fighter, she may have been raised for this job, but this job does not suit her. She could be a sellsword who kills without discrimination for gold, but she is no military commander. Allison would lead these troops into a glorious battle, she would take back the Twins, or crush Peter Stark head on; instead she finds herself following after Kate, with no clear change in sight. 

Instead of putting her military studies to good use, Allison spends most of her time daydreaming about everywhere else she would rather be; more often than not, Scott Arryn is present in those thoughts. He is always present her thoughts—better or for worse. 

Their relationship is a trying one to put it lightly. She initiated it, and used him for the betterment of her family, and he has betrayed the Crown because of it; and both of them are likely to do it again. Perhaps in another place, or another life, this relationship could work, but as things are at this moment, Allison holds no strong faith for their forever. 

She gnaws on her bottom lip before turning to address her sister riding beside her, “Kate… how do you know when you are truly in love,” Allison asks tentatively. 

Kate gives Allison a sharp smile, “If you are asking about Scott Arryn, then no… you are not in love. You are not in love, you are not going to get married, you are not going to have little sickly Arryn children, and you are not going to become Lady of the Vale,” she says plainly. “We are dragons, and we demand the best.” 

“But, Scott it wonderful… he is kind, he is honest… he has told me how much he looks forward to our union” Allison says with a shy smile. 

Kate shakes her head, “Of course he is looking forward to your wedding. Then he can bed you and be done with it.” Allison looks outraged at the very suggestion. 

Kate sighs, “Look little sister, I am not suggesting that you two are some scandalous virgins who have never had one late night grope before,” Kate gives a dramatic wince, “But I am suggesting that you shouldn’t put too much weight in ridiculous things like your maidenhead and happy marriages.” 

Allison looks upon her sister with wide eyes, “Why shouldn’t I expect a happy marriage, plenty of people love their husbands and wives,” she argues. 

“And I am sure they do, but how many highborns marry for love, and how many marry because it is their duty,” Kate says a low mocking voice. “People marry those whom they have to, not those whom they want to,” she says with a bite. 

Allison knows these words are not spoken at random. She knows Kate is giving her an option to carry on the conversation, or take her statement at face value. She has always wondered about the true nature of the relationship between her brother and sister, and this is her chance to know more. 

She is not surprised by the notion that there is more than just sibling love between the two of them, after all her own parents are siblings, and their parents before them. Targaryens often marry their siblings or cousins, it is a tradition to keep their blood pure and preserve their family. 

“You and Chris,” Allison prompts. 

Kate gives a small smile, one Allison does not see often. “Chris and I,” she repeats. 

Allison intertwines her fingers through her horse’s mane, an anxious gesture. “How long have you two been… the two of you,” she asks in a stilted tone. 

“We are twins Ally, it has always been the two of us, and always will be. It started out harmless enough as children,” Kate says with a shrug. “We used to do everything together, and when we weren’t allowed to, we would either throw the biggest fits or exchange clothes and pretend to be the other.” 

Kate looks off into the distance wistfully, “We were only ten and one, the first time we kissed. It was our name day, and we thought we should celebrate like adults, since we were no longer little children,” she says with a small smile. “It grew from there, as you can imagine. We started getting separated for different lessons; me for becoming the commander of our armies, and Chris for taking over the governance of the Crownlands.” 

“Why didn’t you grow apart, when you were separated,” Allison asks quietly. She has always held the worry that one day her and Scott would grow apart; in times like these, it is even more likely. 

“We didn’t let them break us apart,” Kate says simply. “Every moment we were allowed to ourselves, was spent in the company of each other. It started off with just seeking comfort from one another—telling the other what ridiculous things were expected of us. Eventually it turned into lingering touches, and stolen kisses.” 

Allison and Scott have long been stuck at this stage in their relationship. Scott is equal parts terrified of her father, and a hot-blooded young male; Allison can’t decide what side she wants to support. She is not interested in waiting until her wedding night to experience sex for the first time, but nor is she willing to risk pregnancy and shaming not only her own family but his as well. 

“When did the two of you… decide to...?” Allison finishes lamely. 

“Have sex,” Kate asks in an amused voice, “We were one and four—our name day presents to ourselves. It was a little painful, very messy and one of the most amusing experiences I have ever had; but that was because it was with someone I loved,” she emphasizes. 

“Chris and I didn’t care if neither of us knew what we should be doing, or how much better things could be. We just cared about the fact we were there with each other. That is all that matters,” Kate says, levelling Allison with a long look. 

“So if I were to lay with Scott,” Allison asks slowly, “Don’t do it because I am getting married, do it because I want to experience it with Scott,” she asks tentatively. 

“If you want to lay with the Arryn boy, I am not the individual who is going to stop you. However, I am the individual who would be willing to supply you with moon tea, or comfort you should you find your heart in pieces,” Kate says in a warm tone. 

Allison gives her sister a bright smile in return, “Thank you,” she says in a grateful tone. Though her anxious mannerisms have yet to disappear. 

Kate flickers her gaze over Allison bloody bottom lip, and twitching fingers, “You can ask you know. It doesn’t hurt me more than normal if I repeat it,” she says softly. 

Allison opens and closes her mouth numerous times before continuing, “Laura…” she says plainly. 

“Laura,” Kate says with a grimace. “We never stopped our relationship the entire time he was courting her. We fucked the night before their wedding,” she says with a sharp smile, before her eyes fall dark. “But for some reason he loved her. He didn’t love her enough to forsake me entirely… but then again he never loved me enough to not chase after her,” she says with a snarl. 

Allison can only imagine how Kate feels, and she hopes it is never something she experiences. If what Kate is saying is true, then her sister and brother have been in love for years, yet her brother was still willing to break Kate’s heart. 

“Why didn’t you two get married,” Allison asks tentatively. 

Kate’s expression darkens and closes off, “If one of our parents dies, I am to marry to widow,” she says in a cold monotone voice. 

Allison blanches; that was not what she was expecting. 

“For the good of the family,” Kate spits out in a mocking tone. She turns and looks at Allison, a serious expression on her face. “Don’t let anyone tell you whom you can or cannot marry. I don’t care if you love a man, or a woman; a highborn or a lowborn; marry whoever makes you the happiest you will ever be,” she says, the command clear in her voice. 

“I am sorry for bringing up bad memories,” Allison says with an apologetic look, “It was not my intention to stir up your negative emotions.” 

“You didn’t have to bring up anything,” Kate says quietly, “They are always there, right at the forefront of my mind; every minute of every day, reminding me what I can never have.” 

“You truly think the two of you will never be together,” Allison poses

Kate sighs and reaches over to tuck a section of stray hair behind Allison’s ear, “When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, when the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves,” she repeats in a defeated voice. 

Allison feels tears beginning to well in the corners of her eyes, “Do you think Scott and I will stay together,” she asks, a vulnerable expression upon her face. 

Kate gives Allison a pitying look, “If you want to be with the Arryn boy, I am telling you to fight for it. But if there comes a time when he starts to distance himself from you, do not fight it. Or else you will grow to be as broken as I am.” 

Allison looks down at her hands and nods her head in understanding, letting the conversation drop and silence resume. She can feel her shoulders shaking, as silent tears fall from her eyes and splash down upon her hands and horse’s mane. 

Allison thought her and Scott were something deeper, something divine the Gods had blessed. Now she only sees an end creeping closer. Scott does not seem willing to support the rebellion, despite his constant professing of love for her. If that is the case, they will eventually find themselves at an impasse, and all their happiness and love for one another will turn to ash around them. 

Allison is prepared to make sacrifices for her family, but her own happiness is not one of them, that much she is certain of. Her own thoughts are interrupted by a soldier galloping towards them from the front of the procession. 

He looks directly at Kate and hands her a letter, "I am sorry to bother you Commander, but we have received an urgent Raven that requires your immediate attention," he says in a hurried voice.

Kate arches a brow but takes the letter regardless, her eyes quickly scanning over it and her expression growing darker by the second. "Tell the men to change course," she says through clenched teeth, "We need to take care of reminding a few individuals of where their manners are."

### ASHFORD

Ashford is a small town located within the Reach, near the bordering land of Dorne. It sits at a fording of the Cockleswent River and is decorated by quaint whitewashed houses with thatched roofs. Next to the town lie the Ashford Castle, the stronghold and seat of House Ashford. 

House Ashford had long been a bannerman to House Tyrell, and open supporters of their claim to being Wardens of the Reach. However, in the passing weeks, they have decided to follow in the paths of other sworn Houses and have forsaken their sworn oaths to the Tyrells. 

It is because of their new allegiance to House Florent, that Christophe Targaryen and a number of loyal Tyrell bannermen are present in Ashford on this day. The Ashford family kneeling in the town center, their arms bound behind their backs. Armed guards stand behind them, crossbows loaded and aimed at the backs of their heads, both adults and children. 

The remainder of the Ashford populace is also present at the town center; a ring of Tyrell bannermen surrounding them, prohibiting their escape and forcing their attendance. At the center of the square, stands one Christophe Targaryen, his own loaded crossbow at his side. 

“You have been brought here today, to bear witness to the crimes of your sworn house,” Chris calls out to those in attendance. “They have forsaken their vows to the House Tyrells, and today we are going to make an example of how traitors are repaid for their actions.” 

His words are met with silence; the shrill cry of a baby amongst the masses is then only response he receives. 

Chris gives a warm smile and opens his arm wide in an inviting gesture, “Don’t worry, I am here to help you, not hurt you.” He begins to stalk his way around the bound Ashford family. “You are all here because House Tyrell looks out for you—they take care of you. Without them, you would be nothing.” 

He points his crossbow towards a middle-aged farmer, the man recoils in fear. “You there, what is your name,” Chris commands. 

“Randall,” the farmer replies in a shaky voice. 

“Randall,” Chris repeats in a warm voice, “Thank you for joining us today, you are doing a great service,” he says with a smile. “Now what is it that you value most in life,” he asks in a casual voice. 

“My family… my fa-farm,” Randall replies with a stutter, wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers. 

“Your family, how sweet of you,” Chris says in a light voice. “I too care for my family, and I know I would be willing to do almost anything if they were threatened—would you do almost anything if someone were to threaten yours,” he asks casually. 

Randall takes a small step to the left, moving his body in front of a young boy as a shield. “Possibly, mi’lord,” he replies in a quiet voice. 

Chris purposely begins to stride towards the family, and raises his crossbow at the young boy, “Perhaps I should put a bolt through them right now, and ensure that you are willing to remain loyal to House Tyrell.” 

The farmer, his wife, and their son immediately fall to their knees and bow before Chris’ approaching figure. “No—please don’t hurt them,” Randall yells out, “Please we are loyal to House Tyrell,” he says with a choked off cry. 

Chris stops and smiles; the peasants in the Reach are so easy to intimidate, they have lived nothing but privileged lives. They have never had their countryside burned, their families slaughter, or resources pillaged; they are naïve to how bad life can truly be on the bottom tier of society. 

“My mistake,” Chris says in mock apology, “I did not realize I was speaking to a loyal farmer.” He breaks out into a fake laugh and fleets his gaze between all the worried faces staring back at them. “Are all of you loyal to House Tyrell,” he yells out to spectators. 

Slowly one by one they all fall to their knees, signalling their support for House Tyrell, and ultimately the Targaryen rebellion. 

“I am glad you have all made the wise choice. Remain loyal to House Tyrell and you can keep your lives. Refuse to comply…” he breaks off mid sentence to signal the men standing behind the Ashford family. Five crossbows fire simultaneously, and five bodies, adult and child alike, fall forward to ground; their motionless figures casting a dark shadow over the minds of the kneeling populace. 

“Refuse to comply,” Chris reiterates, “And you will watch as your resources are pillaged, your homes and lands are burned, and your families slaughtered,” he says in a cold detached tone. 

Small children in the crowd begin to cry, and the tell tale smell of urine carries on the breeze. Fear is good, Chris knows how to manipulate fear; he likes to be feared. Kate prefers the blood approach; she is good at killing, and she enjoys it. Allison is tentative to take a life, but no less deadly than her older sister. But he, he prefers to wage terror. It is much easier to make those below you quiver in fear, than to have to waste time and resources corralling them through killing blows. 

Chris takes in a breath of air and sighs, “It truly is this simple. Kneel before your true lords, and you will continue to live and thrive just as you have. Betray us, and I promise you, that every deserter will perish just as a worthless soul should.” 

Chris looks around at the kneeling forms and projects a blinding smile out towards them. “It truly is wonderful that we see eye to eye on these matters. It is for the good of the realms after all.”

### KING’S LANDING

Following the Capture of Duskendale, Stiles Baratheon had remained at the port city for three days alongside his uncle, in order to gain insight in post-battle politics. The unfortunate reality was that he was barely able to stomach it. The images he had been exposed to, the conflicts he had been forced to try and solve, made his stomach twist and stab with a dreaded pain. 

Stiles had watched countless individuals roam the streets; calling out for their missing loved ones, only to have to come to the realization that they were no longer part of this world. He had seen widows crying in the arms of their loved ones, and children screaming for the parent that would never come home He had watched as young men slowly removed the bridles from their deceased mounts, dragging the leather behind them, casting parting glances over their shoulders at their partners who were loyal until their last breaths. He had watched downtrodden people lament over their destroyed homes, bartering their remaining food stores for the masonry needed to once again put a roof over their heads. He had watched injured soldiers scream out in pain as their destroyed or infected limbs were sawed off from their bodies; some without the dulling from milk of the poppy. 

Stiles had no idea how anyone dealt with this, how anyone could fight in siege after siege; he imagined they would be forced to become numb to the horrors of war, as they watch their humanity slowly slip away. As thankful as Stiles was for his opportunity to experience the siege firsthand, let alone at the side of his uncle Stannis, when the time came for him to return to King’s Landing, he was more than ready. 

It had taken him a few days to find his mount, but he was eventually located in a field, doing his best to stuff his face full of grass. As far as injuries go, he seemed to have escaped the battle relatively unscathed; Stiles suspecting that the cuts on his chest were courtesy of some mares he had pissed off after the fact. 

The ride back to King’s Landing had been quiet, with only minimal bannermen accompanying him for security. Stiles had utilized his time to reflect on the current situation, and essentially think up every negative scenario possible. He ran through a list of every hostile that may be or could be keeping Derek captive, not to mention how many ways the man could be killed before a rescue could be staged. 

By the time Stiles arrives back at the capital and relinquished his mount to the stablehands, he is both mentally and physically exhausted. He is road weary, covered in mud and bug bites, smells awful, and quite frankly is almost ready to collapse. He wanted to speak with his father, and tell him all about his success in the Crownlands, but was turned away from his private chambers, being told he was forbidden from interrupting the meeting between the King and the Master of Coin. 

Stiles was furious to say the least. He had been gone for weeks, yet his father would rather sit and talk with a man at his beck and call, than acknowledge the son he barely sees. The young prince went storming through the halls, with no particular destination in mind, the staff scattering and warning others to avoid him for the time being. 

During his childish stomping, the prince comes upon Boyd Mormont and Danny Martell drinking in the Small Council chamber. 

The prince gives the two of them a stony glare, “Engaging in some pressing business I see,” he spits out. 

Boyd snorts into his cup and shakes his head, “Welcome back Stiles, it was far too peaceful in the capital without your presence.” 

Danny’s eyes widen for a moment in surprise, “Are you allowed to talk to him like that—am I allowed to talk to him like that,” he asks in surprise. 

Boyd gives Danny an amused look, “What is he going to do about it, whine to his father,” he asks dryly. Danny gives a throaty chuckle in response. 

Stiles releases a long sigh and scrubs his hands over his tired face, “Look, I’m sorry. I’m tired, and I was rude, and I am sorry,” he says in an exaggerated tone, waving his arms for emphasis. 

Both Boyd and Danny look upon him in stunned silence. 

“I’ve spent the past few weeks, planning the most effective way to kill people, then running my sword through them, washing their blood from skin, and watching as their families mourn their passing—so if you could give me a little bit of slack in the noose, that would be spectacular,” he says in a choked voice. 

Danny sucks in a short breath, and absently taps his cup on the table. Boyd bows his head in apology, “We were out of line, apologies.” 

Stiles shrugs and drags his feet across the floor as he heads towards the table and drops down into a chair. He crosses his arms and rests them on table, pillowing his chin on them. 

Danny gives him a quick onceover, “I am going to assume that since you are seated in front of us, you were successful in the Crownlands,” he asks casually.

Stiles keeps his gaze locked on the table, but manages a small shrug. “My uncle is holding the port, and spreading his men out along the coast.” 

Danny gives Stiles a small smile, “I did not ask if your uncle was successful, I am asking if you were.” 

Stiles screws his face up in confusion for a moment before the meaning behind the words dawns on him. “Lord Rykker said Derek is alive. He is apparently somewhere in the Riverlands, though he did not specify where,” he says quietly. 

“I don’t believe he would have the knowledge to tell you his location, even if he had wanted to,” Boyd adds. 

Stiles raises his gaze and looks questioningly at Boyd, “What do you mean,” he asks curiously. 

Boyd sticks out his hand, and after a moment Danny releases an annoyed sigh and removes a letter from the inside of his robes, placing it into the man’s outstretched hand. Boyd gives him a self-satisfied smile before turning to the Prince and extending the letter towards him. 

“What is this,” Stiles asks apprehensively. 

“A letter from Deucalion Bolton. He took the Twins under orders from Peter Stark. Apparently a number of men confessed to having kept Derek Stark captive, before his escape that is,” Boyd replies. 

Stiles sits up in his seat, and his brows shoots up in interest. He grabs the letter out of Boyd’s hand and quickly begins to read Lord Bolton’s words. This is yet another source confirming the belief that Derek is alive; Stiles can’t believe his luck. 

He leases a sigh of relief and gives the two men a blinding smile. “Gods be good, I really needed to hear that from someone other than Rykker.”

Stiles reaches forward and pours himself a cup of wine before reclining back in his seat, kicking his dirty boots up onto the table. “Now we just need to figure out where he is,” Stiles mutters almost inaudibly. 

“You could ask Scott Arryn for a few suggestions,” Danny says with a smirk, whilst twirling his wine cup in faux casualty. 

Stiles who had been taking a sip from his cup begins to choke on the wine, and ends up sputtering and spitting out the mouthful all over his coat and breeches. “Kali already found him,” he exclaims in shock. 

“Even better, he is already waiting for you in the dungeons,” Danny says with a sharp smile.

Stiles nearly falls to the floor as he scrambles to rise from his seat in a hurry. “You two,” he says gesturing to the men before him, “Take me to him this instant,” he orders. 

Boyd raises an unimpressed brow but stands nonetheless. Danny rises from his seat with ease and jerks his towards the door, “Shall we” he asks cheerfully. 

The three men make their way out of the chamber, through the throne room, and down into the dungeons. The dungeons within the Red Keep are spread out over four tiered levels. The upper levels are reserved for common criminals who are confined in high numbers, fortunate enough to be allowed sunlight. The second level is full of individual cells, often reserved for the highborn. The third level is where one finds the black cells. They are extremely small, and are void of all light; leaving them reserved for only the most despised offenders. The fourth level is reserved for torture, and is not an area to be visit lightly. 

Stiles flickers his gaze between the cells on the second level, but is confused as to why he cannot locate Scott. Scott is a highborn, there is no question as to where he should have been placed. 

Stiles turns a questioning gaze towards Danny, “What cell is he in,” he inquires. 

Danny swaggers past Stiles, and continues on towards the stairs leading to the third level, before motioning with his hands in a flourish. “I would suggest you carry on to the third level my Prince.” 

Stiles’ eyes widen, “Kali put him in a black cell,” he exclaims in shock, “How long has been down there,” he questions in outrage. 

Danny throws a questioning look at Boyd. “Three days,” he says in an unsure tone, Boyd merely shrugs in response. Danny shifts his gaze back to Stiles, “Let’s go with three days then.” 

Stiles’ jaw drops, “Has he been given any food or water,” he asks in a rising voice. 

Both Danny and Boyd shrug, looking completely unapologetic. Danny leans a shoulder against the archway, “I regret to inform you that contrary to popular belief, I am not actually employed by your father as a guard in your dungeons,” he says in a sarcastic voice. 

Stiles grimaces, “He may be in the dungeons but he is still my friend.” 

“Let’s not forget why he is down there,” Boyd adds, “He stands accused of treason against the Crown, do not let yourself be blinded of that.” 

Stiles chews on his bottom lip and anxiously shifts his weight from one foot to another, “Let’s just get this over with,” he mutters, walking forward and brushing past Danny on his way down the stairs. 

Boyd shares a worrying glance with Danny before following Stiles down into the third level. Danny rolls his eyes at the two of them, “Don’t worry, I’ll be the smart one and bring the torch,” he calls out after them, grabbing the light source off of the wall before following after them. 

As the three men descend into the black cells, they find five guards sitting round a table by torch light, playing a game of cards. The men look up at the approaching group, but upon seeing the Prince, they simply disregard them and turn their attention back to the game at hand. Stiles grabs a wineskin full of water as he passes by, and choose to ignore the look of disappointment thrown his way by Boyd. 

Danny, the only one with enough foresight to grab a torch, leads the way through the winding narrow corridors until he comes upon the cell designated to one Scott Arryn. 

“Do you want us to wait outside,” he asks, gesturing to himself and Boyd.

Stiles shakes his head, “It’s alright, I would almost prefer the company. It will help lighten to atmosphere hopefully.” 

Then men share doubtful glances, but follow the young prince into the cell regardless. 

Scott Arryn sits in a corner of the small cell, his limbs chained to the wall and floor. He looks exhausted, and ducks his gaze from the approaching men, shielding his eyes from the first light he has seen in days. 

“Scott…” Stiles asks in a tentative voice. 

“Stiles,” Scott exclaims in relief, “I cannot put into words how happy I am to see you, can you help me out of these chains, my arms are cramping,” he says with a voice rough from disuse. 

Stiles takes a deliberate step forward towards Scott, but Boyd quickly rushes forward and grabs the prince’s arm prohibiting any further advancement. Stiles is thankful for the limited light, as he prays to both the old Gods and the new, that neither Boyd nor Danny are witness to the turmoil playing out on his face. 

He sucks in a shaky breath and anxiously scrubs a hand through his unruly hair. “Scott, we need to talk before I can possibly act on your wishes,” he says with a crack in his voice. 

Scott tilts his head and looks upon Stiles in confusion, “Am I missing something,” he asks curiously. 

A heavy silence hangs in the air until Boyd give the Prince a small shove on the shoulder, earning him a sad smile in return.

“What happened at the Green Fork,” Stiles asks evenly. 

A look of worry flashes across Scott’s face, eventually morphing into a frown. “We were ambushed,” he says plainly, “Look Stiles, I know that neither you nor pay much attention to these matters, but I am sure one of your father’s advisors has been recounted the details.” 

Stiles clenches his jaw in annoyance. He is well aware of the fact that he has often been seen as far from the ideal prince, given his former lack of interest in the ruling of the realms. But for Scott to sit here in his cell, bound in chains, and still find himself comfortable enough to mock his interest in a war encompassing the entire kingdom is entirely inexcusable. 

“There have been differing accounts I am afraid,” Boyd replies for the prince in a steely voice. 

Scott shakes his head in exasperation, “We were ambushed,” he repeats. “Derek Stark—“

“Lord. Commander. Stark,” Boyd interjects. 

Scott works his jaw in annoyance, “Lord Commander Stark, sent us on a foolish mission. The Frey men discovered our position easily and ambushed us during the early hours of the morning. I saved my men by guiding them away to safety, what befell the Stark men, I do not know,” he says casually. 

Danny releases an amused snort, “That is most interesting Lord Arryn, considering your men returned to the Eyrie and told your father that you deserted them; fleeing from the battlefield like a coward.”

Scott rolls his eyes, “I don’t believe we have met,” he says towards Danny, “Whom exactly would you be, that you are privy to such details.” 

Danny gives him a charming smile, “Prince Danny Martell of Dorne.” 

“Another one,” Scott mutters under his breath. 

Stiles senses the mounting tension in the cell, and once again steers the conversation back towards himself. “Scott, did you desert your men,” he asks. 

Scott looks outraged at the accusation, “And why exactly are you so quick to doubt my honour,” he spits back towards the Prince. “You once called us brothers, and here you are accusing me of leaving my sworn men to die on a battlefield,” he scoffs. 

Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his neck, “I am not suggesting anything, I am asking you for your recollection of the fucking events,” he says in an aggravated tone. 

“No I did not desert my men at the Green Fork,” Scott says plainly. 

Stiles absently nods his head, “Where is Lord Commander Stark,” he asks in an expressionless voice. 

Scott cocks a brow in amusement, “Dead I presume. He was at the front of the line when the Frey men attacked.”

“Convenient,” Boyd mutters. 

Stiles spares the man a chastising look before once again turning back to Scott. “You are certain he is dead, it is imperative we know what has befallen him. No one has heard anything in months.” Stiles is quite proud of his ability to lie without having a single tell; if anyone should know when he lies, it would be Scott above all else. 

Scott nods his head, “Yes I am certain. He perished in the ambush—a deadly blow to the Stark forces no doubt,” he muses. 

Danny frowns, “Would it please you to see the Stark forces crumble before the Targaryens. To see Allison Targaryen and her family sit upon the Iron Throne,” he says with a raise of his brows. 

Scott jerks forward in his chains, “Leave her out of this,” he roars in anger. 

Stiles spares a sidelong glance at Boyd. The man seems quite interested in Danny’s line of thought; a line of thought that Stiles had been hoping to avoid. If Scott betrayed the Starks for the Targaryens, then he had indeed betrayed his trust, and ultimately the Crown. 

“Scott,” Stiles yells, once again pulling the man’s attention back towards himself. “Did you betray Derek Stark at the Green Fork? Did you order your bannermen to flee and desert the northerners,” he asks in a cold voice. 

“I’m sorry, I thought we were referring to him as Lord Commander Stark,” Scott replies in a mocking voice. 

“You are avoiding the question,” Danny points out in a flat voice. 

Stiles takes a step towards Scott, contorting his face into a cold mask; one he had watched his uncle wear during multiple interrogations. “Did you desert Derek at the Green Fork,” he presses. 

A look of understanding dawns on Scott’s face, quickly replaced by disgust, “Derek,” he says in an exasperated voice before breaking out into a hysterical laugh. “You are fucking the northerner, that is the only reason you could possibly be this concerned about politics.” 

“I am concerned about the possibility that my friend could be involved in a plot to kill my father and seize the Iron Throne,” Stiles spits out viciously. 

At seeing the Prince’s mounting anger, Boyd cautiously reaches a hand out towards the Prince, “Stiles—” he says warily. 

“Don’t coddle me,” Stiles yells in anger, throwing his arms up in the air. “I am not some child! I deserve to know if my friend is plotting to kill my own father,” he snarls whilst pointing towards Scott’s form. 

“Why the fuck would I want your father dead,” Scott scoffs. 

“Why the fuck would you want my father dead,” Stiles practically shrieks in hysteria. “Why would you betroth yourself to a Targaryen; why would every first person account describe you as having betrayed Derek at the Green Fork; why would you disappear entirely following the battle; why did Kali Martell find you…” he breaks off. 

“At Harrenhal,” Danny interjects in an amused tone. 

“Thank you,” Stiles says whilst animatedly waving an arm in Danny’s direction. “Why did Kali Martell find you at Harrenhal,” he yells out. It takes mere seconds before the meaning of the words dawns on him. “Harrenhal,” he spits out in anger. “She found you at fucking Harrenhal. A known Targaryen stronghold,” he growls in a venomous tone. 

Scott’s mouth is gaping open, but he is unable to form any words for his defense. In contrast, Stiles is utterly livid, screaming out countless curses at the chained man, whilst both Boyd and Danny hold him back from taking careless actions. It takes a long number of minutes for the two men to calm down the angered Prince, and remind him that attacking the man would solve nothing. 

Eventually they are able to relinquish their hold on him and step back, Stiles having now gone eerily quiet. He begins to pace the length of the small cell, hands clenched into fists with his knuckles having gone white. He slowly comes to a stop directly in front of Scott and looks down upon him with a snarl on his face. 

“Here is what is going to happen,” he says through clenched teeth, “I am going to let you live. Kali Martell is going to drag your worthless treasonous form back to the Eyrie where you will remain until the end of your days. I don’t care if your father has to lock you in the steepest Sky Cell he can find; you will never set foot out of the Vale again. You will never find yourself in my presence again. You will never put my father’s life at risk ever again,” he says in a rising tone. 

A sharp smirk starts to play upon the Prince’s lips, “But before I say goodbye for the last time, I am going to leave you with a parting gift,” he says in a cold voice. “I am sure you must be thirsty, here have a drink,” he says motioning to the wineskin at his side. Stiles removes the wineskin from his belt and opens it, dumping the water out onto the stones next to Scott. 

Scott looks at the puddle in dismay, “What am I supposed to do with this,” he whines out. 

“Considering your new found role as the Targaryens’ rat, I am sure you will find yourself quite a home, drinking from a puddle on the floor of a cell,” he says in a steely voice.

“Stiles please,” Scott implores, “We are practically brothers—you know I wouldn’t try to harm your father,” he calls out in a worried tone. 

Stiles looks upon Scott with cold disinterest, then pivots on his heel and strides towards the door of the cell, motioning for Boyd and Danny to follow. The Prince exits out of the cell and back down the winding corridors, ignoring the constant stream of pleas being called out by his friend back in the darkness. 

Stiles is not going to compromise on his father’s safety, be it at the hand of friend or foe. Had it been Boyd, Danny, or even Derek whom had plotted with the Targaryens to kill his father, he would have done the same to them. Scott has to face consequences for actions, and frankly he should be pleased that he is allowed to escape King’s Landing with his life. 

As the three men reach the staircase the guards are furiously whispering amongst themselves, but fall silent at the sight of the approaching group. Stiles tosses the empty wineskin back to them, “Have Kali Martell take the prisoner to the Eyrie,” he jerks his head in the direction of Danny, “Her nephew will provide her with further details,” he commands. 

“Yes my Prince,” the men respond in unison. 

The three men continue to walk in silence as they progress through the remaining levels of the dungeons, and back out into the throne room. The group comes to a halt before the Iron Throne, and take notice of the moonlight now shining in through the windows. 

Stiles turns to Boyd, “We need to go after Derek. We know he is alive and we need to bring him back here before someone else sinks his or her claws into him,” he says in a hushed voice. 

“Stiles I am the Master of Whisperers, not the Master of ill advised rescue attempts. I cannot simply ride out of the capital and spends weeks roaming the Riverlands,” he argues. 

Stiles groans and scrubs his hands through his hair, “If you were missing Derek would ride out to find you. Be it his misplaced guilt complex or his duty as your sworn lord, he would ride out to you,” Stiles implores. 

Boyd’s stony mask begins to crack and he cautiously looks around the empty throne room, “What do you suggest I do then,” he asks, “Tell your father I am going sight seeing. That I need a leave from my position and fancy a holiday at the Twins,” he says in a dry tone. 

Stiles begins to chew on his thumb nail and absently taps the toe of his boot repeatedly on the stone floor. “I’ll deal with my father. Just be prepared to leave in the morning,” he says with a grimace. 

Boyd looks sceptical but nods his head regardless. “I’ll see you in the morning then,” he says as he excuses himself and heads for his chambers. 

Stiles then turns his attention to Danny, “I need to speak with my father, but in all likelihood, he is probably still in a meeting with his Master of Coin,” says with a put out sigh. 

“You are the Prince of Westeros,” Danny says with a sly smirk, “Surely you could remove him from your presence.” 

Stiles gives a derisive snort, “What am I meant to do, stomp into the room and order him to leave my sight at once,” he asks in a sarcastic tone. 

Danny shrugs, “Surely a man as involved in politics, such as yourself, must possess some information that could bait him into doing your bidding,” he suggests casually. 

“Please tell me you have some form of munitions I can use to get him excused from his chambers,” Stiles asks with a hopeful expression

Danny gives an amused snort and shakes his head, “Not my problem.” 

Stiles frowns, “Please, I am practically begging here,” he grits out. 

Danny raises a brow in amusement but eventually caves at the pathetic sight, “Marin Oakheart has been in repeated contact with the Tyrells since the outbreak of the war. One could suggest they are conspiring against the Crown,” he drawls out in a light-hearted tone. 

“Eh, not your best, but I can make it work,” he says whilst giving Danny a pat on the back.” Stiles takes off at a jog towards the doors of the keep and calls over his shoulder back towards Danny, “Talk to your aunt tonight, and if I don’t see you before I leave, this is your warning to stay out of trouble.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Danny replies in a dry voice, watching the Prince disappear out the doors. 

Stiles jogs to his father’s chambers, slightly out of breath from the exertion when he arrives, “Get out of my way,” he orders the whitecloaks. 

The one on the right of the door sighs, “Your father is still conducting his last meeting of the day…” 

“And right now you are fraying my last nerve,” Stiles hisses out in annoyance. “Get out of my way, or you will find yourself in a very precarious situation.” 

The whitecloak takes a moment to consider the Prince’s words before side stepping out of the way; the one of the left refuses to budge.

“I swear it by the Gods Greenberg, if you do not get out of my way I will run my sword straight through you,” Stiles threatens. 

The whitecloak sucks in a sharp intake of breath and quickly shuffles to the side, allowing the Prince to shove open the door and stride into the room unannounced. 

His father sits slouched down in his seat, wine cup in hand, and a pitcher in front of him. Seated nearby is Deaton Oakheart, the Master of Coin, and current pain in Stiles’ ass. 

“Leave us,” Stiles orders, fixating a cold unrelenting stare on Deaton. 

“Your father and I are quite busy at…”

“I. Don’t. Care,” Stiles says with a wide smile. “I don’t care what you are doing, because it isn’t what you should be doing. You should be rising from your seat and marching out that door behind me, because your Prince is ordering you to do so.” Stiles begins to stalk his way towards Deaton’s seat, “Now get up, and leave.” 

Deaton side eyes the King who seems bored with the whole proceeding; completely desensitized to Stiles’ more trying moments. Deaton reluctantly rises from his seat and stand with his arms crossed, attempting to stare down the Prince. “Regardless of what you want, it is your father’s word that I follow.” 

“Curious. Is that something you plan on continuing, or once your sister has worked some deal with the Tyrells, will your interest in my father’s wellbeing change like the winds,” Stiles sneers back in response. 

Deaton’s expression falters for a moment before he is able to regain his composure, but by then the damage has been done. “I don’t know what you think you know...” Deaton begins to say. 

“I am going to suggest you put an end to your cryptic blathering, I am not in the mood for riddles,” Stiles says with a bite.

The King releases a long sigh and takes a long drink from his cup, “Leave. We will continue our talk in the morning,” he says towards Deaton. 

“Your Grace, I assure you that...” 

“Leave, that is an order,” the King interjects, refilling his rapidly draining cup. 

Stiles grinds his teeth as he watches the Master of Coin slowly bow and walk out of the room, maintaining eye contact with him for the entirety. 

Once the room has been cleared, Stiles takes a seat at the table and watches his father continue to nurse his cup of wine. 

“I am sending Scott back to the Eyrie,” he says shakily, “Kali Martell will escort him there, and he will remain there indefinitely as consequence for his actions in the Riverlands,” Stiles says, looking to his father for approval. 

His father absently swirls his cup of wine in contemplation, “I was expecting the two of you to be back on good terms by morning,” he says coolly. 

Stiles furrows his brow in irritation, “He betrayed the Starks. He is in league with the Targaryens, how am I meant to forgive him for that,” he asks, anger mounting in his voice. 

The King meets his son’s gaze, “The Vale needs to remain in the fold, if Rafael Arryn feels slighted by our actions, we could be adding another realm to the rebellion,” he says plainly. 

Stiles’ hard expression does not waver, “Rafael Arryn’s son is guilty of treason, and he is lucky to not be receiving his son’s bones,” Stiles reasons. 

“He pleaded guilty then,” the King asks warily. 

“No,” Stiles says testily, “He denied everything, and was livid I would question his honour.” 

The King raises his brows in question, “Then how do you reason he is guilty of treason,” he chastises. Stiles hates that tone, he has been hearing it since he was a child. 

“He lied. I know he lied because other lords have said different, never mind the thousands of soldiers with eye witness accounts,” he grits out

“Then you managed to glean something worthwhile from his interrogation,” his father says in a proud voice. 

“Derek is alive,” Stiles says evenly. 

His father snorts into his cup before turning his gaze to his son, “Good. What exactly am I meant to do about it,” he says dryly. “I am busy trying to hold 9 realms together Stiles, I don’t have time to worry about one man.” 

Stiles leans forward in his seat, “Then let me worry about him; let me travel to the Riverlands and bring him back into the fold,” he urges. 

“No,” his father says simply. “I trusted your uncle to keep you safe and not let you out of his sight. And since you managed to return to me in one peace, he obviously did as instructed. But that is a far stretch from letting you run rampant across the Riverlands.” 

It takes all of the young prince’s effort to not give a derisive snort of laughter at his father’s words; if anything he had spent the majority of his time trying to keep his uncle within his line of sight; not the other way around. In all honesty he had more freedom to choose his own actions on the battlefield, then he has ever had here in the capital. 

“Then send Parris with me,” Stiles implores, “Just please let me go, I need to do this.” 

His father drains yet another cup of wine and reaches for the pitcher to refill it. “No,” he repeats. “Your uncle Parris may be under my rule, but at the moment I have no control over him, he is effectively out of my reach.” 

Stiles raises a sceptical brow, “You are the King of Westeros, what do you mean you have no control over him,” he asks impatiently. 

“Parris Lannister is funding the majority of our war effort. If we take his gold, we can limit the tax burden once it comes time to fulfill reparations. So long as we require his gold, he is free to do as he pleases,” the King says grimly. 

Stiles groans and slams his hands down on the table, “You can’t just keep me here locked up. I need to do something, I want to do something,” he yells in frustration. 

His father suddenly rises from his seat, knocking both cup and pitcher of wine over, spilling them onto the table. “I am not going to lose you over something as idiotic as this. You are a boy Stiles, and you won’t live long chasing after some passing infatuation,” his father roars out in anger. “Gods be damned if I am going to allow you to die young, same as her.” 

Stiles shoots up from his seat, a stony expression on his face, “Unless she died saving your drunk ass, I highly doubt our situations would be the same,” he spits out before turning round and striding towards the door. “I missed you too by the way,” he throws out over his shoulder in a mocking tone, as he exists out through the door slamming it behind him. He does not see his father collapse back into his seat, rubbing his hands over his face in an attempt to stave off tears of frustration and worry.

The Prince storms through the halls, and heads back to his room, slamming the door behind him, and locking it before flinging himself onto his bed and crying out in anger. 

He does not understand why his father can’t comprehend the importance of this. At this moment he may not be betrothed to Derek, but that does mean he should leave the man, who has so quickly supported the Crown, to die alone in the Riverlands. Derek deserves a better fate than what the Gods have dealt him, and Stiles vows to see that done. 

Stiles has no plans to let Derek slip from his grasp; nor does he possess any inkling to trust someone else to bring the man back to him in one peace. If anyone is going to be successful in finding and rescuing that pain in the ass, it is going to be him. 

The only problem being his father, who seems set on the notion that he can simply say ‘no’ and forbid him from doing what he deems unacceptable. Frankly Stiles doesn’t know what his father is thinking, because there are very few times in his life where he has ever obeyed his father’s orders. If anything he disobeys them for the fact of the matter. 

Stiles gradually rises up onto his elbows and looks to his window, the moon now high in the sky, and the stars shining bright on a cloudless night. He doesn’t know where Derek is, or if he even has the ability to see the same stars he is gazing at right now, but one day they will look upon them together; that much he swears by. 

His father can disallow him from rescuing Derek all he likes, but he has already decided that his father is not going to be making that decision. He is going to leave in the morning; he is going to take Boyd and his handful of men with him; he is going to rescue Derek; and by the old Gods and the new, he is going to bring him back home.


	16. It is swords I need from them, not kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Surprise motherfucker its update time. 
> 
> II. I know I know, I am terrible person who hasn't updated in a month. In all honestly I hadn't written anything from the semi up until last week... so you know failure and a terrible person. For anyone wondering the trip was amazing, the world cup was amazing, almost lost my voice cheering in the final, and met some killer people. Unfortunately I had a buttload of contracts to deal with once I got home and finished hibernating back to my normal clock and sleep schedule. Not being a teenager means I can't wrap myself up in a blanket burrito and continue ignoring my month load of work. 
> 
> III. I haven’t been watching season 4 of TW, but from what a buddy has told me, nothing interesting has happened beyond Ryan Kelley’s biceps, and Liam being a mini Jackson. So that snarky asshole can get added into the story, apparently everyone else is still irrelevant and I don’t have a reason to write him or her in yet. Also I heard Meredith died, which is fucking lame because I loved her.
> 
> IV. Also if you guys haven't figured out yet, in this there is no "gay" stigma or some bullshit like that. No one cares who you fuck or who is fucking you. So, don't expect to see any of that in the writing. 
> 
> V. I have restructured this chapter like 7 times, so it is a bit shorter because the next one is hella long, but more things needed to happen in that chunk of time than this one.

### KING’S LANDING

The moon still sits high in the night sky, and a sharp wind carries through halls of the Red Keep. On this night the castle is quiet, the only souls who wander are a handful of cats, eagerly stalking their prey through the courtyards. However, a number of individuals are beginning to stir, all carrying an aura of anxiousness with them. 

Stiles Baratheon had spent the better part of the night tossing and turning in his bed, unable to find any rest in the wake of his argument with his father, and concerning conversation with Scott Arryn. Scott has been one of his oldest friends; they had practically grown up together. Scott was the one who was there when his mother was suddenly lost to illness; he was the individual who had introduced him Lydia Tyrell, and helped him plan how to woo her all those years ago. He was the one who Stiles confided his fears of ruling in; he was the one person Stiles never expected to lose. 

Stiles knew that one day, him and Scott would inevitably find their significant others and begin to drift apart, being forced into the governing politics of their own family legacies. However, he never expected it to happen like this. Lydia was always supposed to be his queen, she was supposed his be all end all. Instead he found himself in some strange scenario where he is worrying about some northerner, struggling to survive in the Riverlands. 

He no longer spends his night dreaming about fiery hair, pale skin and shapely curves. Instead his thoughts are haunted by memories of his fingers running through soft dark locks, the scratch of rough stubble against his skin, and a taunting smirk playing on thin lips. Stiles has fallen, and he had fallen hard. Lydia was now an after thought, a memory that almost doesn’t seem real to him. 

The problem is that Scott appears to have fallen for someone of his own, a Targaryen no less. Stiles gets it—really he does. He isn’t one to talk in this scenario. He met Derek at his sister’s wedding, argued and postured for a few minutes before literally falling into his lap and sucking on the man’s face—he knows he has no room to talk. However, he was smart enough to fall for an ally of the Crown, not one of the pricks who are leading the rebellion against it. 

Stiles is interested in saving the life of a man who has pledged his service to the Crown, in contrasts Scott is interest in saving the life of a woman who is killing loyal citizens of the Crown. Stiles understands that you can’t choose who you love, otherwise he would be planning to invade the Reach, not the Riverlands, but honestly he feels no sympathy for Scott’s actions. He put the Crown at risk, and that is something he will never forget, no matter how much is hurts him to exile his friend to the Eyrie indefinitely. 

He knows with time he will be more likely to forgive Scott, since all he appears to be guilty of is misplaced faith in Allison, and harbouring an odd hate for the Stark family. If he had been a direct threat to his father’s life, then it would be a different matter. He did commit treason against the Crown, but thankfully he didn’t directly try to have his father killed, ultimately making him not guilty of plotting regicide; or at least he isn’t to his knowledge; that is the difficulty of not moving things through a trial immediately, he has no idea what is hearsay and what is truth. 

His father seems content to hold Scott as a ward, or at least something to that degree. Stiles doubts the boy would remain the dark cell, in contrast he would be free to roam the halls, eat their food and sleep upon a featherbed; living in luxury in order to ensure his father’s cooperation. Stiles would much rather have Scott banished from his sight to the Eyrie than watch him flounce around the capital and moan about his dreary days that are void of his one true love. 

Unfortunately, his prior decision to send his friend home is weighing heavy on his mind. Scott is a liability, and he has no doubt that Kali will deliver him to the Eyrie; the problem in ensuring he remains there. Scott holds more information than he is willing to reveal to him, and frankly Stiles is uncomfortable considering the methods he would have to use in order to gain said information. 

He is not prepared to deal with Scott himself, but nor is he prepared to sign his best friend’s death warrant, not yet anyway. He has often been criticized for thinking rashly, hurling accusations, and acting impulsively upon gut instincts. Despite the gnawing feeling growing inside of him, he is choosing to ignore the bold move, and is determined to not be the man responsible for a friend’s death. However, he is prepared to have someone more qualified handle this situation. 

He knows Scott is in possession of important information, and he knows Scott is a pain in the ass to convince to do anything on a normal day, let alone when it means betraying his oh so precious Allison. Stiles needs someone with an iron will who isn’t afraid to break Scott’s resolve, someone who can do what he doesn’t have the stomach for, someone he would trust with his life. 

He quickly grabs a piece of parchment and quill from his desk and scrawls out a quick letter outlining the new orders for Kali Martell, cautiously reading it over, before deeming it acceptable. Scott’s future may be out of his hands, but at least he won’t have to worry about trying to wash off his blood should he refuse to cooperate. 

Scott is a problem he can deal with; his father is another issue entirely. When Stiles spoke to him only a few hours prior, he had been shocked to find that he was not supportive of his request to ride to the Riverlands. Stiles understands that his father would naturally be protective of him, and want to limit any harm that could befall him, but frankly he is almost certain that he nearly lost his life at least five times in Duskendale, honestly how much worse could the Riverlands possibly be. 

Stiles doesn’t know if his father will ever forgive him for the actions he is about to take, but he hopes that one day his inevitable disappointment in him will hurt less. He had gone to his father hoping to convince him to allow his rescue mission, instead it appears he is going to be doing it without his consent; a stupid move for any child, regardless if their father is the King or not. 

Stiles releases a shaky breath and slowly rises from his bed, raking his fingers through his mess of hair. He carefully dresses in his armour, and quickly packs any items he feels will be necessary on this mission, before taking one last look at his room and silently slipping out of the door. 

The guards who are normally stationed outside of his room are absent, no doubt thanks to Boyd’s men running interference on their duties. When Boyd Mormont had originally taken up the position as Master of Whisperers, he had brought with him a number of northern men, and their deadpan sense of humour. The Mormont bannermen had originally been an oddity around the castle, now they are recognized as a welcomed fixture. 

Stiles quietly makes his way through the winding corridors, but instead of heading towards the stables, where he knows Boyd and his men are waiting, he heads towards the Small Council chamber, where he knows he can find the maps he requires for this journey. When he arrives, he makes quick work of sorting through the pieces of parchment and maps stacked in front of the King’s seat, when one rolled scroll catches his attention. 

Stiles reaches out an inquiring hand to find it blank, except for one key component, the King’s signature upon the bottom. He feels his breath leave him in one quick moment as he stares at the endless possibilities he is holding in his hand. He was already going to send a raven notifying Scott’s future captor of his imminent arrival, prior to leaving the city—but this scroll is something else entirely. This was likely beginning to be forged during the meeting he interrupted with the Master of Coin, but frankly Stiles believes he can make much better use of it. 

The problem is decided what to do with the unlimited options before me. He needs to make sure his orders are not something so outlandish there are no hope in them being followed through, yet he also needs to concern himself with selecting the most eager individual to receive the raven. If he selects someone who is likely to doubt the orders, this will be for nothing. If he does not follow the conservative military rhetoric that his father endorses, the orders are likely to be questioned. Fortunately for him, the answer is directly in front of him. 

His hands begin to tremble as he slowly lowers the scroll to the table and picks up a nearby quill from an inkpot. He releases a long shaky breath and in the best writing he can manage, scrawls out a quick succession of orders, before blowing on the ink and sealing the scroll with the King’s official wax seal. 

There will be no going back, for either him, or the war effort following the arrival of the raven carrying this message. Stiles suspects that it coupled with Scott’s pertinent knowledge of the Targaryen war machine, his dangerous choice of action will not go unrewarded. He takes a long number of minutes to stare at the scroll in his hands; it weighs nearly nothing yet the magnitude of what it carries weighs heavy on his mind. Ultimately it is his need to meet Boyd and he needs to leave quickly before the sun rises, that spurs him on and out of the Small Council chamber. 

He rushes to the tower that houses the caged ravens, removing one from its cage and attaching the scroll to its leg, before whispering the name of the castle and releasing it out of the window. He hopes he has done the right thing, but at this point in time he can only pray to the Gods that his actions will yield the outcome he desires. Stiles knows that battles are won with swords and men, but wars can be won with quills and ravens. If he feared the ire of his father for going after Derek, he can only imagine what consequence he will face for this. 

Stiles takes a quick detour and makes his way towards the chambers of one Danny Martell, hoping to relay the change of plans before the Martells ride out in the early morning. He knocks quickly on the door, and anxiously shifts his weight from one foot to the other. 

He can hear shuffling inside the chamber and after a moment Danny opens the door, groggily running a hand over his face. “What,” he asks in a deadpan voice. 

Stiles releases a shaky breath and scrubs a hand through his hair, “Change of plans,” he replies, shoving the new orders towards him. 

Danny raises an inquisitive brow and snatches the parchment out of the Prince’s hand, quickly scanning the words before him. “The Vale is no longer an option,” he inquires. 

Stiles shakes his head, and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. 

Danny glances back down at the parchment and back up at the Prince’s anxious face. “Are you sure about this? I do not mean to offend but it does not seem advisable with the current strategy,” he cautions. 

“There has been a minor change in our course of action,” Stiles says with a small grimace. Stiles can practically tastes the blatant lie as it carries off of his tongue, 

Danny raises his brows in scepticism, “And this came out of your meeting with your father,” he asks tentatively. 

“The orders come straight from the desk of the King himself,” Stiles says in an expressionless voice, doing his best to hide the tremor breaking to the surface. 

Based off of Danny’s range of facial expressions, Stiles has no doubt that the young Dornish prince holds little to no merit in his words, but luckily he seems to be willing to play along all the same. 

“I see they are now to leave prior to sunrise,” Danny says slowly.

Stiles gives a sharp jerk of his head, “Time is imperative in this situation,” he says, steeling his face into a hard expression. Stiles does his best to look intimidating, and prays to the Gods that Danny is not going to go behind his back and head to his father. Stiles needs him to cooperate, Stiles needs him to help do this quietly and quickly. 

Danny is silent for a number of minutes, flickering his gaze back and forth between the parchment and the anxious Prince before him. “I’ll see it done,” Danny says quietly, giving Stiles a warning look before slipping back into his chambers and shutting the door behind him, leaving Stiles to releases a relieved sigh and rush off towards the stables. 

Stiles always thought war was messy business played out in gruesome battles, now he finds that is more like a game of Cyvasse. The board is constantly changing, as each player is responsible for arranging their own surroundings. However secrets do not remain hidden for long, and eventually the pieces begin to move, running into one another and revealing their true ambitions. It is from there that strategy develops and eventually the pieces take turns removing one another from the board until only the winners remain—at least until the board resets and another round begins. 

Stiles may have a bad habit of rushing into things headfirst, however he does possess the reasoning required to play a game of strategy, more so a game of manipulation. The fact of the matter is that you can play the game as much as you like, but if you aren’t the one who is building the board, if you are simply one of the pieces, well then you are destined to perish in order for someone else to succeed. 

This is not Stiles’ board; this game has been set up by the Targaryens, a game in which they hope to take the Iron Throne. Up until now Stiles has been just another piece, reacting to the world being constructed around him, being moved about by his father and his council, attempting to outmanoeuvre the opposition. The Targaryens have been calling the shots, they have been the ones manipulating and leading the rebellion; the Crown has simply been reacting to each new threat that pops up. 

Stiles is no stranger to not having control of his own life, or his own future, after all that was set in stone upon his birth. He has been able to tolerate his limited control, be it by instigating the odd conflict or occasionally acting out, but this is a threat he cannot handle any longer. Stiles is fucking sick of this board—this is Stiles taking back control of his life, this is him flipping the fucking board. 

The downside to this course of action is that he is now responsible for constructing the new game; he is the one that is forcing the pieces into their new positions. The reality of the situation is that he is not even aware of where some pieces are going to fall; the Starks, the murderous Argent children, the notoriously disloyal yet power hungry Ironborn—it truly is a mess. Stiles may not know where all the pieces are going to fall, but he does know how to build a desirably board, he knows what fronts he wants to manipulate. 

He just hopes that by manipulating one front, he does not condemn another to a worse fate. He knows this is a risky course of action, and he knows the consequences could be dire, but he trusts his gut instinct and hopes he his is right in his beliefs that these manoeuvres could help swallow up the Targaryen threat. Even if he is correct, he knows that he will be facing severe consequences for the actions he is taking tonight, and oddly enough he is willing to embrace that inevitable fate. 

The closer his feet carry him towards the stables and the waiting Mormont men, the calmer he grows, the more resigned to his actions he becomes. Every beat of the raven’s wings takes the orders closer to its destination, and every inch the sun creeps closer the horizon sees the Martells begin to stir and their imminent dispatch with Scott from the capital. Every step he takes leads him closer to Derek, and hopefully towards a peaceful realm. 

Once Stiles arrives at the stables, the sight of Boyd Mormont and his handful pf bannermen sitting astride their horses welcomes him. Stiles approaches his own mount who is anxiously pawing in impatience, giving him a quick pat on the neck before mounting up and settling himself in the saddle. 

“Everything in order,” Boyd asks with a raise of his brows. 

Stiles nods emphatically, “I spoke to my father, we are clear to proceed,” he says with a wide smile. 

Boyd gives Stiles a withering look before sighing, “He said no, didn’t he,” he drawls out whilst cueing his mount forward towards the gate. 

Stiles’ jaw drops and he begins to sputter nonsensical words in argument, but Boyd and his bannermen simply ride out past him, forcing him to urge his horse forward. 

“Hey,” he yells out after Boyd’s retreating form, “I told you he said yes,” he spills out, whilst reining his horse into a canter beside the northerner’s own. 

“I know what you said,” Boyd says with a roll of his eyes, “However I also know when you are lying,” he adds simply. 

Stiles’ expression is one of pure indignation, “Pardon you, I am lying. How dare you accuse me of that,” he spits out in protest. 

Boyd rolls his head to the side and raises his brows in scepticism, though he says nothing, he maintains his eye contact with the Prince for a number of moments. 

Stiles deflates whilst releasing an agonized groan, “Alright! Fine, he said no. Are you pleased now,” he says venomously. 

Boyd swivels his head back forward and smile makes its way across his lips, “Ecstatic,” he replies. 

Stiles leans forward in the saddle out of defeat and continues to mumble muffled profanities for a number of minutes before he shoots up in the saddle and gives Boyd a questioning look. “Wait… if you knew my father said no, then why are you riding with me to the Riverlands,” he asks in a questioning tone. 

Boyd gives a small shrug, “You were right,” he says simply. “Derek is my sworn lord, and I owe this to him. He doesn’t deserve to be left for dead, he is at the very least deserving of our loyalty.” 

Stiles makes an impressed noise and looks upon Boyd in awe, “And here I thought you were one of those individuals who always looked out for one’s self,” he says with a whistle. 

Boyd chuckles in response, “Yes and no. I value my own life above those of others, which is after all how one is able to stay alive in times such as these. However, that being said, I am not going to leave one of my oldest friends for dead… not after everything he and his family have done to better my life.” Stiles gives a nod of understanding. 

“Why are you so concerned about Lord Stark,” Boyd questions, the amusement clear in his tone. 

Stiles’ face flushes, and he can feel himself grow hot. “I… I have an invested interest.” 

Boyd gives Stiles a quizzical onceover, eyes hovering over his abdomen, “Did he fuck you,” he questions. 

Stiles gives an indignant squawk, “W-Wh-What,” he sputters, “No- we haven’t done- there hasn’t been anything- I just- nothing,” he finishes lamely. 

Boyd chuckles, “So if he hasn’t fucked you, and you aren’t betrothed, and you have spent barely any time with one another; I ask again, why are you so invested in his life.” 

Stiles chews on his bottom lip, drawing a bead of blood to the surface. “I want him to be something, I want him to be something to me.”

Boyd tilts his head in contemplation, “Lord Stark is not going to be the same man you once met in Dragonstone, war changes people. He has survived attempts on his family’s life, he has been betrayed by an ally on the battlefield, he has been held captive at the Twins, and is now dragging his no doubt wounded and weak form across the Riverlands. When we find him, I can’t promise you that he will still be the man you once wanted.” 

Stiles furrows his brow and gulps. He knows Boyd is right, but honestly the truth is difficult to digest. The odds of Derek being dead, or near death when they find him are already astronomical. The odds of him being broken-down or an entirely new person are also quite good. Nonetheless he isn’t going to give up on Derek, he owes him that much, especially considering Derek is in the scenario for defending the Crown, for defending Stiles’ life. 

The Prince takes another moment to mull over Boyd’s words before responding. “I think that is the most I have ever heard you say,” Stiles replies with a smirk. 

“You talk too much,” Boyd replies, giving Stiles a hard shove to his shoulder, and nearly unseating him from his cantering horse. 

Stiles gives a surprised shout and grabs onto his horse’s neck like a monkey clinging to a tree branch. “That’s no way to speak to your Prince,” he calls out to Boyd, once he has regained his seat in the saddle. 

“Good thing we are both outlaws now,” Boyd calls back over his shoulder with a large smile. 

Stiles blanches and spurs his horse forward to catch up, “You don’t think my father is actually going to be that upset do you,” he calls back in a worried tone. “Boyd? Boyd! A little reassurance would be most appreciated!” 

His words do not receive a response, but instead are met with an echo of laughter from the surrounding men. Stiles knows they have a long ride ahead of them, and that what they find may not be what they are hoping for, but ultimately this is a gambit he is willing to run; his father’s ire be damned.

### EAST OF THE GREEN FORK 

There was a tentative peace agreed upon between Derek and Erica, she could continue to talk about any subject she desired during their journey, but Derek was under no obligation to respond to anything prompted towards him. Ultimately, one could say the arrangement was working out well, for the most part anyway. 

Derek was adamant on ignoring Erica and some of her more trying moments, though there had been a few instances where he had felt forced into retaliating. He is not what one would call a patient man, and in that regard, he is only able to endure the chatter of his companion for so long before he finds it necessary to retaliate. Derek feels a tiny bit of remorse for some of his more abrasive comments made, however he is adamant he was in the right to snap at Erica, given her prying and self-important nature. 

Erica is a pain in his ass, end of discussion. For the most part she does what he suggests, though he knows that the only reason she is humouring him is because she is completely out of her element. Now that she is free not only from the Iron Islands but also from the Twins, she thinks herself to be invincible, someone who is not to be trifled with. 

Derek knows better; Derek knows just how fleeting power is. As they are now, Erica is granting him the illusion of power in this situation, she is willing to follow his lead so long as it is beneficial for her. He know that as soon as he becomes a liability or something she feels she has outgrown, he will be tossed aside and back on his lonesome. 

It is because of this that he feels little sympathy for the reprimands and biting comments he tosses her way. She is violent and rash in her decisions, she does not take stock in the fact there are individuals just as dangerous as her wandering through these lands. Erica assumes that because she is carrying his sword, and he is trying to choose the least dangerous route, that she will find herself soon living a life free of problem. 

Derek knows better; Derek knows that despite their minimal advantage, the winds could easily change against them. Prior to leaving Winterfell, Derek had always been a bit of an optimist. He was the heir to the north; he was for all intents and purposes well loved and untouchable. But since the disaster that was Laura’s wedding, the destruction of Rosby, Scott Arryn’s betrayal and his questionable time with Jennifer Frey; Derek has become nothing but a pessimist. 

Derek knows there are not Targaryen men hiding behind every bush or rock, but it doesn’t stop his mind from assuming it, nor does it stop him for accepting the fact someone is probably going to kill him sooner or later. He has been doing his best to try and force these ideals onto Erica as subtly as possible, reminding her that there is a war, and that in order to ensure their survival they need to be secretive in their existence as to not raise attention. 

Unfortunately subtlety is not Erica’s strong suit, and despite Derek’s frequently interjected subtle warnings, she has continued to boast about her prowess as a fighter. Derek imagines his worries would lessen at her words if the Ironborn were actually trained in combat, and not just hacking their way through ships and villages on their raids. Erica may be terror on the seas, but on land she is just another individual playing at war, waving around a sword they have no hope of properly controlling. 

Erica is willing to listen to his advice, but she isn’t quick on following it, especially if their makeshift route of passage is anything to go by. She is trying, Derek is willing to give her that, but unfortunately it isn’t enough if she wants to survive. Derek realises that if he is going to teach Erica anything about survival in times of war, he is going to have to change his tactics from verbal lessons to a hands on approach. 

He spares a glance over his shoulder and slowly zones out of his thoughts, realizing that yes Erica has indeed been nattering away this entire time. She is strolling along slowly after him, staring at her nails in her left hand and kicking her heels in the dirt as she goes. His sword is hanging limply in her right hands, the end of it trailing along in the dirt as she drags it beside her. Derek can’t help but give an amused snigger; it would take no effort at all to disarm her. 

He takes a moment to consider if this is really the best course of action for his teaching, but in hindsight perhaps using his uncle Peter as his teaching model was a bad choice. Erica is completely oblivious to Derek’s plans as he quickly pivots on his heel and uses the rope binning his hands together as a means to pull to sword of out Erica’s loose grip. 

In one quick move Derek twists the sword in the air and captures the hilt in his bound hands, a sharp smirk finding its way to his face. “You really ought to pay more attention,” he chastises with a drawl, sounding oddly reminiscent of his favourite uncle. 

Erica is stunned into silence for a number of moments as she slowly raises her hands in a placating gesture. Her breathing begins to grow laboured and Derek can see tears beginning to form in the corner of her eyes; not exactly the reaction he had been hoping for. 

Derek sighs and lowers the sword, bracing his weight on it like a cane. “If someone disarms you, crying isn’t going to do anything to fix it,” he says with a sigh and a shake of his head. “If you are going to cry at someone holding a sword at you, you might as well kiss your life goodbye now and save yourself the effort later.” 

Erica frowns and furrows her brow in annoyance; that is closer to what Derek was hoping for. “I’m not crying,” she hisses out, “You caught me off guard is all.” 

Derek raises a brow in scepticism, “Oh,” he asks airily, “And how exactly were you going to defend yourself, since you apparently didn’t plan on crying at me.” 

Erica bares her teeth in a snarl, “I had a plan,” she argues back, though Derek’s expression remains just as judgemental and impassive. 

Erica closes her eyes and draws in a long calming breath in an attempt to stave of a violent outburst. When she opens her eyes she places a worried expression upon her face and slowly begins to walk her way towards Derek, who seems bored with the entire proceeding. 

“I was going to appear as nonthreatening as possible,” she states, coyly keeping her eyes downcast, “I would make my attacker think that I am not a threat.” She worries her bottom lip and gives Derek a small smile, “Men think women to be weak, If I can help remind them of their stupidity before plunging a sword through them, then the advantage is mine,” she says evenly. 

“And how exactly would you show them that you are nothing to be feared,” Derek casually asks Erica’s nearing form, making no effort to move away from her advancing steps. 

“I would make them forget all about swords and fighting,” Erica says breathily before closing the remaining distance rising up onto her toes, allowing her to seal her lips over Derek’s in a bruising kiss. 

It only takes a few moments for Derek to break the kiss and shove Erica back hard, causing her to hit the ground with jarring thud. “Don’t do that again,” he warns, holding out the sword so that the point is only mere inches from Erica’s throat. 

Erica looks down at the sword and then back up to Derek’s eyes, “Why,” she asks, “Is it because I am an Ironborn?”

“No,” Derek replies with an amused snort, “It is because I have someone else in mind.” 

Erica rolls her eyes in annoyance, “Of course, the little baby stag. What do you even see in him,” she spits out. 

Derek sighs and draws back his sword, though he does not relinquish it from his grasp. He turns his back on Erica’s prone form and continues walking along the chosen route. “I don’t have to answer to you,” he calls back over his shoulder. 

Erica growls and rises up, dusting herself off before stomping after him. “I am your captor you know, you should answer me when I ask you a question,” she yells at his retreating form. 

“And what a magnificent captor you are,” he replies with a chuckle. “I am not only the one leading the way, I am now also the one once again in possession of my sword. All I am missing is my damn horse and I’d be free to do as I please.” 

Erica shoots Derek a sour expression. “And what exactly are you going to do if some Targaryen men do happen upon us,” she asks. “If anyone recognizes you, we are completely fucked. The only way we will be able to bypass anyone will be if they assume I am indeed an Ironborn, leading you my northerner hostage, to Dragonstone or some other fucking shithole.” 

Derek nods his reluctant agreement and stops walking, turning to acknowledge Erica. “As much as it pains me to say this, your point holds some merit.” 

Erica preens at Derek’s words and slowly closes the distance between them, holding out her hand expectantly. “Give me back the sword,” she says, though all she receives is an unimpressed glare from Derek. “Please give it back,” she asks hopefully, “You can even teach me how to use it properly,” she offers with a small smile. 

Derek looks at Erica expectantly, “You expect me to believe that you are actually willing to stop for awhile and learn how to properly use a sword?” 

Erica shrugs, “It wouldn’t be an awful idea to learn how to use one, I know there is more to it beyond the obvious of sticking someone with the pointy end,” she says with a smile. 

Derek can’t help but laugh, her words sounds far to familiar to ones he has heard come from his own baby sister’s mouth. “Fine, but you need to be practicing your stance and footwork for long while before I plan on giving you this sword back.” 

Erica opens her mouth to protest but Derek raises a hand, effectively cutting her off. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t be keen on that, so here is my offer. If you are willing to work with me on learning how to use a sword properly, and allowing me to carry it until I deem you ready, then I will answer your more… irrelevant questions,” he offers.

Erica gives him a blinding smile, “Deal,” Erica says extending her hand to seal the agreement. 

Derek raises a brow at her hand but shakes it nonetheless, despite the difficulty with his own being bound. They take awhile to relax in a shaded area, their cover is pertinent as the moonlight could easily give away their position. Derek has Erica running through a number stances and sequences of footwork. He finds that she really isn’t that awful at it, but her patience could use a lot of work. 

“You are thinking too much,” he calls out sometime into the exercise. “If you are too focused on yourself, your movements become jarring, they should be smooth and precise.” 

“Well why don’t you distract me then,” Erica bites back, her patience obviously fraying with each passing mistake. “You never answered my question earlier,” she starts, “Why are you so interested in the little prince?”

Derek grimaces and scratches at his beard, “Honestly I don’t really know,” he says with a shrug. 

Erica levels him with an unimpressed glare, “Bullshit, try again.” 

Derek huffs and rolls his eyes, “I don’t know… he seems stupidly loyal. Not in the ‘I would die for you sense’, but more so in the ‘I would kill for you sense’,” he finishes lamely. 

“Right…” Erica says flatly. “And that is appealing because…” she prompts. 

Derek takes a moment to think before answering. “Well he hasn’t exactly tried to kill me, or enslave me, or really do anything beyond acting like a right spoiled prick. Also he has seemed slightly concerned about my well being, so that coupled with the fact everyone else who has made a play for me lately has been bloody mad, makes him honestly seem like not that bad of an option.” 

Erica bursts out laughing and quickly loses her balance, falling over onto the ground. “So the fact he hasn’t tried to kill you, or murder anyone else in cold blood, is what makes him so appealing,” she asks through a fit of giggles. 

Derek smiles and scratches the back of neck in embarrassment, “Honestly yes.” 

“Fucking northerners,” Erica says through peals of laughter. “Who knew that all it took to win Derek Stark’s heart, was as simple as not trying to kill him.” 

“Erica—,” Derek warns. 

Erica shakes her head, “I’m not making fun of you, honestly, I completely understand. I can practically see you professing your undying love to him,” she says with a snort. “You will stare dramatically into his eyes, clasping his hands in your own, as you tell him that his ineptitude with a sword and his spoiled featherbed mentality is everything you have ever desired and more.” With that she breaks out into another chorus of laughter. 

Derek frowns, “If you don’t stop laughing, I am going to get up and start walking away with my sword, and without you.” 

Erica’s laughs tapper off and she wipes the tears from her eyes. “You don’t need to be so serious all the time,” she moans. “It was just a little fun.” 

“Hilarious,” Derek drawls, “Now get up and go through your paces, your form is abhorrent.” 

Erica grumbles but rises and eventually resumes her practicing, though she continues to mumble and chuckle under her breath every now and again. Derek is willing to count it as a draw and ignore it. The sun is beginning to rise on the horizon, and soon they will have to slow their progress as traveling during the day grows increasingly more dangerous, the closer they progress towards the Trident. Their journey might be becoming more dangerous, but it is also starting to nurture a flicker a hope inside Derek's chest. He honestly didn't believe they would make it this far unhindered, so why shouldn't they be able to make it all the way to King's Landing in one piece?

### WHISPERING WOOD

The sun has finally breached the horizon, and the Ironborn are beginning to stir within their encampment. Over the past five days, more of their forces that were once scattered across the Riverlands, have turned up at the Whispering Wood and are preparing to start their journey home. 

Isaac had been surprised when the letter from Ser Boyd Mormont stated that the Ironborn were to ruin to the Iron Islands, and not participate in the war effort. Apparently he felt that they were too weak a number; possibly outmatched in their provisions; or that they could simply not be trusted. Frankly Isaac wouldn’t trust any of them, and he is one of them. 

Isaac has been keeping to himself mostly for the past couple of days, the atmosphere in the camp being tense. Camden has been busy trying to take up the position of Lord of the Iron Islands, and is just now realizing how much is actually involved in their governance, despite how little is actually produced on them. Isaac sees his older brother for maybe an hour or two a day, and even then, Camden is distracted by work. 

Isaac fears for his brother. Camden is an amazing soldier; after all he has the discipline and skill to be a feared commander. However, he is not politically savvy, nor will he ever been known for his economic or social reforms. Unfortunately others seem to share this belief, and Isaac has heard whispers traveling throughout the camp—much to his worry. 

Some seem to think Camden is not cut out for the position of Lord of the Iron Islands, at least if he is planning on remaining loyal to the Crown. Many wish to continue their history of pillaging and looting, something which cannot continue to be if they are meant to be at peace. It is because of this that some seems to find their surrender as weak, something Quenton would never do. 

Isaac read about his father’s death, he knows that he died like a true Ironborn; he died refusing to surrender. Now his successor is attempting to do the exact opposite by bending the knee and scurrying back home to their pile of rocks. Isaac personally endorses the running back home methodology; he is a tried and true believer in it. However, he also happens to be the minority. 

Quite possibly the loudest voice complaining out against their plan of retreat is his brother Matt, who in recent days has stopped talking to Isaac altogether. On face value one would assume it is because Camden gave Matt’s stolen horse to him, but then again Isaac isn’t that dull; he knows there is more to it. Matt wanted the horse for a specific reason, and that reason doesn’t have anything to do with the Iron Islands. 

The problem is, that Isaac can’t figure out what the damn reason actually is. He knows Matt wants to stay here, but his plan with the Targaryens is effectively defunct since the death of their father. The Targaryens would kill Quenton Greyjoy, and so long as the Ironborn supported their cause, Matt would be given the Riverlands. 

But now the Tullys are married into the Targaryens, Quenton is already dead, Camden is taking their forces home, and frankly Isaac has a fucking headache just trying to figure out the ass end of this whole conundrum. Matt’s motivation is something that has been bothering him for days, something Isaac is about ready to give up on. 

He knows Matt is ignoring him because he has essentially turned his back on their plans and pledged his support to Camden, and honestly Isaac understands how that can be perceived as an action of betrayal. Him and Matt have been a cohesive unit for years, they suffered together for years; that isn’t something one throws aside lightly. But Isaac is a realist and he knows when a better option comes around, and that better option is Camden. He only wishes Matt would see it that way. 

The only doubt Isaac has of leaving the Riverlands is leaving Erica behind. The unfortunate reality of this situation being he has no idea where she is, or if she is even alive. Apparently the Twins fell at the hands of Deucalion Bolton, someone Isaac hopes he never has the pleasure of meeting. Erica is likely alive and living under and alias, or she died fighting. Either way, his fate is out of his hands, and as much as he would like to protect his sister from harm, he knows she would leave him without batting an eye if it meant her own survival. 

Isaac has already asked Camden about Erica once, and he said if doesn’t know to travel west to the Whispering Wood; she is either dead or beyond their reach. In Isaac’s opinion it was a terrible answer, and an easy out, but ultimately he understand his brother’s reasoning. If it was Camden or himself, they would be fighting for their own survival on their own as well, after all it is the way of the Ironborn, but that doesn’t mean he has to agree with it. 

At the end of the day Isaac knows his family is fractured and dying, a reality he does not have the ability to change. Each day is filled with more unknown faces approaching him, and offering their condolences over the passing of his father, or likelihood of Erica’s own. The Riverlands are sucking the life out of him, and he is ready to go home. 

He figures it wouldn’t hurt to ask Camden about Erica once more, since they are set to head out towards the shore by morning. He decides to untie the destrier he had been brushing and after a lot of pulling begins to lead the horse on a winding walk through ever growing encampment in search of his brother. 

The only thing he is going to miss from this place is this damn horse Camden gave him. The destrier had been his only companion for the past handful of days. In all honesty it has been a rather enjoyable companion, doing nothing but grazing, swatting flies and letting him dote upon it. He had tried to swing his weight up onto his back a number of times, but was met with crow hoping and squealing. Isaac is starting to think that the Frey men knew what a shit this horse was and unloaded it on for their own benefit, considering how bad it is to handle. 

The horse may be a pain in his ass, but given his choice for company, it was the best option around. It takes him close to half an hour of slowly ambling before Isaac comes across his brother, and the sight isn’t very soothing. Camden and Matt are arguing in hushed tones, though judging by their expressions and the ever-encroaching eavesdropping crowd, the conversation is one of an escalating nature. 

Isaac slowly creeps closer and sidles up next to a group of men watching intently. “What are they arguing about,” he asks quietly. 

One of the men turns to look at him and snorts in amusement, “Same shit they have been going on about for days. Damn bastard won’t give it a fucking rest.” 

Isaac sighs, “Of course he won’t, Matt doesn’t realize when he has beat. He is too busy focusing on himself and all his imagined slights to even realize how deep into the shit he has waded.” 

The men chuckle and give Isaac a puzzling looking, “What’s with the horse,” one asks. “Planning on swimming back home,” another adds. 

Isaac opens his mouth to answer but the tell tale whoosh of an arrow and the thud of it hitting a target has him jerking his head towards where his brothers stand. Matt is standing completely still, but a sharp smile sits upon his face; in contrast Camden is down on one knee, a flaming arrow embedded in his shoulder. 

Isaac feels his breath leave him in an instant, and he goes to rush forward but the men grab his arms holding him back. It is only seconds later when the thunderous sound of approaching horses reaches his ears. A number of mounted soldiers burst forth from the surrounded trees. Many ride out further into the encampment, others begin to circle and enclose Matt and Camden. 

His brother has yanked the arrow from his shoulder and has pressed his hand over the wound, but blood is rapidly seeping out over his fingers, and dripping down onto the ground below. Isaac is continuing to struggle against the men holding him back. The Ironborn have been allowed safe passage home, he can show the commander the letter, and he can have their lives spared. 

Or at least he thinks so, until men ride forward, proudly carrying the waving standards of House Targaryen; Isaac knees buckle, and in that instant it is only the men restraining him that are keeping him from crumpling to the ground. 

“Lord Camden Greyjoy,” A blonde with a wicked smile taunts. “You have been a very bad boy, do you know that.” 

“Who the fuck are you,” Camden spits out through a pained wince. 

The blonde gives a disapproving click of her tongue, “Now that is no way to speak to a lady,” she says with a pout, “Let alone a lady who wants to kill you for turning tail and trying to run like a coward.” 

Camden grits his teeth but does not respond to her taunts. “You know who I am, now tell me who you are,” he says through clenched teeth. Isaac is beginning to worry at the amount of blood seeping from his shoulder. 

“Commander Kate Targaryen,” the blonde states, “I am sadden that my reputation does not proceed me beyond the civilized borders in Westeros.” 

She turns and nods her head towards a brunette on her right, the girl is mounted on horseback, but she has her bow drawn and an arrow notched. “This is my sister Allison, show her the same respect you should show me,” Kate says in a warning tone. 

Camden spits on the ground, “I don’t show respect to mad incestuous cunts like the lot of you.” 

A sharp sound cuts through the air and in an instant Allison’s arrow in now embedded in Camden’s left shoulder, causing him to fall down onto his knees, and release a pained yell. 

“Words have consequences,” Kate chastises. 

“How did you find us,” Camden asks, “The only army near here should be the one belonging to Lord Peter Stark.” 

Isaac does not miss the brief flash of fear on Kate’s face. It is curious that despite her posturing, one name is enough to make her have doubts of her actions. 

“Stark,” she says, a slight tremor in her voice betraying her bravado. “I am not worried about Lord Stark right now. I am worried about my little army of Ironborn scurrying back to their pile rocks they call a home, after they pledged support to my House.” 

“I thought true Ironborn never surrendered,” Allison says airily, cutting into the conversation. Isaac isn’t sure what his opinion is on her, but he has no doubt she could fire an arrow into his heart before he could open his mouth to voice it. 

Camden gives a wet laugh; flecks of blood coming out with each exhale. “We aren’t surrendering, we are remaining loyal to the Crown. The Crown that ensures our survival.” 

Matt scoffs, “And here I thought the Ironborn took what they wanted. I didn’t realize we were content to live off of handouts.” 

There is a murmur of agreement amongst many in the crowd, and Isaac can hear a number of small arguments beginning to break out, the larger pockets of spectators beginning to shove one another around. 

“Surely not all of you are spineless weaklings who want to turn and run from a fight. Are there not any true Ironborn left,” Matt calls out to the surrounding men. 

“You fucking bastard,” Camden coughs out with a sardonic laugh. He attempts to rise but is too weak and collapses back down upon shaking knees. 

“I am a bastard,” Matt says with a nod of acquiesce, “However I am bastard that is going to be Lord of the Iron Islands.” He quickly draws his sword and plunges it straight through Camden’s abdomen, giving the sword a harsh twist before planting his foot on his brother and kicking over his body as he withdraws the bloody blade. 

“Support a true Ironborn, or die as a deserter,” Matt yells out over the mounting noise of the crowd. The Targaryen soldiers look upon the scene with glee, many drawing their weapons in anticipation for the opportunity to kill. 

Within mere moments all hell breaks loose. Ironborn are fighting Ironborn, and the Targaryen forces are joining in, aiding them in making quick work of those who remain loyal to their dying lord. Isaac can barely hear any of the fighting over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. He tries to push forward towards his dying brother but the same men from earlier quickly pull him back. 

“Are you fucking mad,” One of them yells, “He just killed your damn brother, and you think the fucking bastard won’t try to slit your belly open next.” Isaac just gapes at the man, unable to process of the chaos around him. 

One of the men grabs him by the knees and throws him onto the back of the destier. Isaac attempts to gain his balance, but the horse is growing restless in the face of the fighting and refuses to stand still. He wraps his fingers into the horse’s mane, and grips desperately with his knees, hoping that he won’t simply slide off of the side. 

“Hold on tight and don’t stop unless the horse is ready to fall over,” One of the men orders, smacking the mount on the haunches and sending him off at a gallop. Isaac is jarred but manages to keep his seat. He closes his eyes and prays to any god that will listen that the horse is capable of navigating the mounting battle around them. 

If he closes his eyes maybe everything will go away. Maybe Camden will still be alive; maybe Erica will be by his side and annoying him like normal; maybe Matt won’t be trying to kill him. When he closes his eyes, he can pretend that his life isn’t completely falling apart around him. 

He can hear the sound of swords clashing and men crying out in pain. He can hear hoof beats thundering as the Targaryen men continue to sweep through the encampment like a plague of locusts. The steady rhythm of breaths being puffed out by his mount’s lungs are a steady reminder of his current situation, but it is the sound of horn that has his opening his eyes to reality, and question why the fuck is there a horn. 

Isaac opens his eyes and reins his mount to a halt within a grove of trees, watching in awe as thousands of mounted soldiers come pouring in from the northern edge of the encampment. A number of them are blowing on horns, signalling their position, other are carrying standards that show a grey wolf on a field of white. They are flying the sigil of House Stark. 

The men who have ridden into the encampment look confused, reining back their horses in order to take in the chaos unfolding before them. They are shouting between one another, asking for orders or clarification it appears they did not ride here to fight. It isn’t until a man rides forth, seated upon a zorse, that things become clear what is happening. 

The man turns in his seat, looking out upon the disorder in front of him and what appears to be his never-ending slew of soldiers. The right side of his face is partially burned, and there is scarring disappearing down into the neck of his armour. Isaac thinks he recognizes the disfigured man; he thinks he has seen this man fight in a tournament before. He thinks this man is Lord Peter Stark. 

“What in the seven hells is going on here,” the man asks in confusion, a disgusted look set upon his face. “Leave the Ironborn alone for a week and they start stabbing one another out of boredom,” he mumbles more to himself than those nearby. 

“What are our orders sir,” one of the soldiers calls out, a commander Isaac presumes, if his armour is anything to go by. 

“Keep the peace…” Peter says with a halfhearted shrug, though it is stated more as a question. 

A number of Targaryen riders go streaking by in pursuit of some Ironborn, but quickly rein their horses back into a stop as the sight of the advancing army. “NORTHERNERS,” they cry out in warning, as they turn back and retreat. The cries of Targaryen men echo throughout the skirmish, and Isaac notes that their forces appear to be retreating to safety; a number of disloyal Ironborn running with them. 

“Scratch that,” Peter says with a wicked grin, “Kill anything that isn’t try to kill a Targaryen bannerman.” 

Instantly the men spur their horses forward and sweep out in pursuit of the Targaryens, Isaac would be lying if he said he was not impressed by the display. However Peter Stark does not ride with them, he waits back with his commanders. 

“Bring me whatever Targaryen that is responsible for this mess, but bring them to me alive. I want to tear out their throat myself,” he says with a snarl. Isaac thinks that is as good of an olive branch as anything, and nudges his mount forward. 

He only makes it a few steps before an arrow embeds itself in the tree next to his head, mere inches off from its target. He turns to see Allison Targaryen in the distance, her bow still raised and an angry expression upon her face. Before she can notch another one her sister—Kate—is urging her away, motioning towards the approaching Stark forces. Allison snarls but gallops off alongside her sister and their retreating men. 

Isaac turns his frightened gaze back to the Stark commander, and sees him staring back, though his mouth is gaping and his expression is one of confusion. 

“Camaro,” he says disbelievingly. Peter gives a sharp whistle and Isaac feels his mount surge forward, causing him to forcefully pull back on the reins, fighting for control of the horse. 

“Do we follow them my Lord,” one of the commanders asks Peter, he receives no answers. “My Lord,” he repeats more forcefully, pulling Peter out of his trance. 

“No,” Peter says quickly, giving a shake of his head. “They will be riding for Riverrun, which unfortunately I feel we no longer have the numbers to take… if their unexpected presence is anything to go by,” he says angrily. 

“Then what are our orders,” the commander presses.

“Slaughter the stragglers, loot the corpses and the encampment, and then rest for the day. Tomorrow morning we will ride west,” Peter says with a put out sigh. 

“West…” the commander repeats slowly, scanning his eyes over Peter as if searching for some hidden meaning behind the words. “What exactly is in the west,” he asks tentatively.

Peter gives a dramatic wince, “A Lannister I need to grovel before in order to possess the men necessary to take Riverun,” he replies in a flat voice. 

Isaac blanches, perhaps he had overestimated making a deal for his survival with Peter Stark, especially if the man is at the mercy of a Lannister. Isaac knows what happens to Greyjoys when their lives are left at the mercy of Lannisters. 

He groans and begrudgingly turns his mount away from the scene in front of him and once again spurs him forward towards the east. Unfortunately the west no longer seems like a viable option, and right now he wants to put as much distance between himself and Matt as possible. 

Matt can call himself the Lord of Iron Islands as much as he pleases, but the reality is that his bastard brother will never hold the title. His father Lord Quenton Greyjoy is dead; his brother Lord Camden Greyjoy is dead. Fuck if Isaac is going to be the next murdered Lord of the Iron Islands. He is going to ride as fast as he can away from those cursed fucking rocks. He, Lord Isaac Greyjoy, the forever unwanted and belittled second son now holds the title of Lord of the Iron Island; and he could not give any less of a fuck about it. For years Isaac was convinced that his life was some divine jest for the Drowned God. Now he thinks that both the old Gods and the new have began to take their own shots at his existence. 

All Isaac has left is a title, a title that is likely to have him killed. Beyond that he has a sister who may or may not be dead, and a horse that more than likely appears to be stolen from a northerner. All in all Isaac feels that his life could possibly not get any worse; which means that it most certainly will.


	17. An appreciation for the finer points of bad behaviour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. I had a very sudden death of a family member near the end of September, from what was apparently some well hidden and aggressive cancer. To top things off, one of my show horses (so basically another family member) had a pasture accident a few days ago and had to be euthanized, so basically life sucks and I have had negative 5000 fucks to give in regards to writing anything as I had enough of my own angst without trying to make more of it. Updates should be regular again, and you guess can expect them roughly every 1-2 weeks again. 
> 
> II. If anything seems off please mention it in the comments and I’ll try to fix it, this has all been written at weird increments in time during the past two months, and on some different planes of emotional distress. I tried to generally proof it as well as I can, but since I know everything, everything seems normal to me. Huge thank you to those of you who have stuck around and are still interested in reading this. 
> 
> III. Doran Martell= Oded Fehr, you are welcome for that extremely attractive mental picture.
> 
> IV. Rhys Florent= Hideo Muraoka, because I needed some family resemblance and his face makes me happy.

### KING’S LANDING

Danny was beginning to regret accompanying his father to the capital, as everyday seemed to bring another headache and a new person he had to avoid, all thanks to that annoying Baratheon. It was not unusual for the Baratheon Prince to wander off alone, as he had few friends within the citadel’s walls. Stiles Baratheon was notorious for keeping to himself, often disappearing for hours at a time and only making reappearance when it suited him. Consequently, this is why his disappearance had gone unnoticed for almost half a day. 

Once the King had arisen come morning’s light, he once again took up residence within the Small Council Chamber; completely oblivious to the disappearance of his son and Master of Whispers. It was not until mid-afternoon when he had called for the guards to bring Lord Scott Arryn before him, that he was made aware of just what had transpired hours earlier. The guards had returned with anxious expressions, and without the requested prisoner, much to the King’s chagrin. He was informed that Kali Martell had left with Scott Arryn before sunrise, and that they were unable to complete his demands. 

Naturally the King was furious, he had no expected his foolish sun to go forward with his outlandish plan to return Scott to his father. The King called for the Prince to be brought to the chamber, and for a number of the city guard to be dispatched and in charge of locating Kali Martell and her prisoner. If one thought the King was furious before, it was nothing compared to his ire once he had discovered the true level of betrayal that had taken place during the night. 

No one was able to locate his son, nor was anyone able to locate Boyd Mormont, or his bannermen for that matter. The King knew there was no logical explanation for the disappearance, naturally they had decided on being foolhardy imbeciles who had ridden off to the Riverlands in search of the displaced northerner. After the death of his wife, the King had sworn to every God he could name that he would do everything in his power to keep his son safe. He now finds himself in a situation where for the first time in years, he has no control over what could befall his son. 

To make matters worse, four days after their departure, the city guard returned empty handed. Evidently Stiles had seen fit to change his plans as to where Scott should be sent, and judging by Lord Rafael Arryn’s lack of knowledge pertaining to son’s whereabouts, it appears as though Scott has disappeared much the same as his own son. The King was at the end of his wits, completely unable to unravel just what his son had set into motion. 

In this situation he would normally find solace in the counsel of his brother-in-law, Lord Parris Lannister. However, he has long since left the capital for the west, where he felt he could better command his forces. The King had ultimately turned to Doran Martell, his current acting hand; however he quickly found that Martell blood runs thicker than their loyalty to the Crown. Doran had been able to provide any information pertaining to the young prince’s whereabouts, or the location of his sister Kali Martell. 

Young Danny Martell had been observing these proceedings for the past week, watching the politicians circling each other in suspicion, attempting to gage what each other was hiding. He had heard his name brought up for summons numerous times, but unfortunately for the King, if Danny does not wish to be found, there is no hope for those seeking him out. 

Danny knows he is the individual holding the cards in this scenario; he is the only man in the capital in possession of the information that is so highly desired. However, Danny knows the value of this information and is not keen to hand it over without proper compensation. Danny knows he could just easily be punished for the role he played in the proceedings, just as likely as he could be rewarded for coming forth with the information. Thus, revealing any information must be done at the opportune moment. 

Unfortunately for the young Dornish prince, that choice was effectively taken out of his hands when his father saw fit to hand him over for questioning. It had been a week since the chaos had erupted in the capital, when Danny was told his father was looking for him, needing to pass on pertinent information regarding one Jackson Lannister. Naturally Danny jumped at the news, and in hindsight should have realized he was being played. 

He had rushed to the Red Keep, eagerly awaiting what news his father had for him. Instead of being greeted by the lone sight of his father, he found numerous white cloaks station around the perimeter of the room, and the King seated upon the Iron Throne. 

“Oh fuck me,” Danny mumbles almost inaudibly under his breath, as he cautious stalks forward towards his awaiting father. 

The King motions towards the lone chain in the room, stationed directly in front of the Iron Throne, “Please take a seat Prince Danny,” he says with a tight smile. 

Danny spares his father a questioning look before slowly taking the seat, and continues to astutely avoid eye contact with the King. His father ignores him completely, but Danny takes note of his rigid posture. 

The King absently taps one of his feet upon the base of the throne, “You are a difficult man to track down,” he says with a raise of his brows, the question plain in his words. 

Danny slouches down minutely in his chair in an attempt to make him seem smaller and nonthreatening, “I prefer to avoid the politics of the capital,” he says plainly. 

The King spares an amused glance at Doran Martell before flickering his gaze back to Danny, “Oh,” he asks with a small smile, “You have no interest in any of the happenings that go on here?”

Danny frowns slightly and gives a shake of his head, “I can’t say that I do.” 

The King sighs,” There is no need to play games, just tell us what you know,” he prompts in a tight voice, the smile still rigidly placed upon his face. 

Danny raises his brows in question and shrugs, “I know a great deal of things, but I am afraid that none of them are the information that you seek, your Grace.” 

“Danny—,” Doran warns, his father’s patience has obviously already been broken down. 

The King tilts his head and gives Danny a curious look, “What can you tell me about my son’s disappearance,” he asks. Though his face continues to exude approachability, Danny can see the Baratheon anger beginning to crack under the surface. 

Danny releases a long sigh, “I… as many others do, assume that he has left capital in pursuit of some greater purpose,” he says slowly. “I imagine he is in the Riverlands,” Danny finishes lamely. 

“Where in the Riverlands,” his father prompts in an impatient voice. 

Danny grimaces, “Forgive me, but as I am currently sitting in the Red Keep, and not actually riding a transect of the Riverlands, I find myself unable to provide the information you seek.” 

The King gives an amused snort, “You have no inkling as to where my son could have gone?” 

“Where his paramour is I suspect,” Danny supplies. 

The King raises his brows expectantly and motions for him to continue. 

Danny flickers a confused gaze between the King and his father, “Once again I am going to have to ask you to refer to my previous statement. As I am not in the Riverlands, I do not know whom is where.” 

The King gives an amused chuckle and looks to Doran Martell, “Quite the son you have here,” he says in an exasperated and sharp tone. 

Danny was interested in having a nice relaxing day; he was interested in hearing his father’s news on Jackson; he is not interested in sitting here and being interrogated because Stiles is a self-serving prick that left the realm to go gallivanting around on some ill-advised rescue mission. 

Danny clears his throat, “Is that all or was there another matter you wished to address,” he asks quietly as slowly begins to rise from the seat. 

His father quickly comes to stand behind the chair, and lays his hands on his shoulders, effectively shoving him back down into the seat. Danny releases a long-suffering sigh and makes no move to adjust him from the slouch he has ended up in. 

The longer he is stuck in this room, the greater the chance he is going to have to let something spill. Most people would be glad to throw out a piece of information and be on their way, however Danny did not get this far in the game by playing so loosely with his skill set. He is known for acquiring all sorts of information, but more so for never revealing his sources or his tricks of the trade. If he caves now, who knows what detrimental effect it could have on his information gathering abilities after the fact. 

Danny knows what everyone thinks of him, and he knows how to make it work to his advantage. Most men see him as the heir to Dorne, notorious for seducing his way through various courts. Whilst the stories are often exaggerated, Danny is not going to be the one who corrects them. The more men who disregard him as no more than a handsome face, the more men who will be willing to let information fall from their foolish tongues. 

Anonymity is a privilege taken for granted by many, but embraced by Danny. He finds that individuals are much more likely to spill their secrets if they know that their words will never be repeated. Danny does not sell information, nor does he use it immediately. He prefers to examine the broader context and combine various pieces of knowledge into something greater, something that is useful for his own gains. One kernel of knowledge is of no use to him on its own, but collect enough of them, and one day you will have a valuable stock to cultivate and reap the rewards of. 

It is because of this that Danny is adamant to not give away any knowledge he has pertaining to the annoying Prince. Stiles may be a reluctant ally, and a right pain in his ass, but he serves a great deal of purpose and thus Danny is not willing to negate the steps he has made in growing their friendship. 

The King grimaces and clicks his tongue in annoyance; his hands tighten into fists, and his knuckles white. “I am going to ask one final time, do you have any knowledge pertaining to my son’s plans or actions in the Riverlands.” 

Danny contorts his expression into one of faux pity. “My apologies your Grace, but I appear to be of no use to you in this matter. Perhaps you would have better luck consulting your Master of Whisperers,” he says in an innocent voice. 

“Careful,” The King warns in a booming voice, “You may be a Prince of Dorne but I am still the King of Westeros. I am sure you know as well as I do that Ser Boyd Mormont went missing at the same time as my son.” 

Danny raises his brows, hoping to emulate an expression of shock. “I am sorry I did not. As I previously said, I do not engage in the politics that take place here, and as such I do not put stock in the whispers of servants.” 

A dangerous smirk finds its way to King’s face, “You have raised a capable son, Prince Doran,” he praises, “He certainly knows how to navigate the dangerous waters of politics.” 

Doran gives a tight smile and a weak laugh, “Thank you, your Grace. My wife Arianne and I have tried to raise a decent son, though I apologize that he has not been of use to you today.” 

The King waves a hand absently, “No worries, perhaps another line of questioning,” he prompts with a hard gaze, his mounting anger hidden beneath a forced grin. 

Danny groans internally, can the Gods stop pissing on him for a mere moment, or is that simply too much to ask. 

“Your aunt Princess Kali Martell was instructed by my son to take Lord Scott Arryn to the Eyrie. I have spoken with the guards in the dungeons, and they have confirmed that you were to give her the orders. As you may have heard through… disregarded… whispers, Lord Arryn has not arrived at the Eyrie, and we do not know where she has taken him. Do you have any information pertaining to this,” the King questions. 

Danny raises his brows in interest but otherwise leaves his face blank; he shouldn’t be surprised that Kali was able to navigate the realms without notice, but honestly he is awfully impressed. “The morning your son went missing, he woke me and gave me a letter containing a new set of instructions, that I was meant to pass on to my aunt,” Danny says casually. 

The King’s eyebrows make a valiant attempt to climb to his hairline. “What did the letter say,” he poses. 

Danny tries to look apologetic. “In Dorne it is frowned upon for one to open letters that are not addressed to them, I regret to inform you that I did not have the opportunity to read it.” 

The King looks beyond shocked. “My son handed you a letter outlining the new orders as to where a high profile prisoner was meant to be taken, and you did not feel it was worth a quick glance,” he asks incredulously. 

Danny has to hold back a smirk, “To the contrary, the information was undoubtedly quite interesting—hence this meeting—however my honour does not permit me to read things that do not concern me.” 

The King releases an exasperated groan and drops his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in aggravation. “You possess no knowledge whatsoever as to where my irresponsible and negligible son sent Lord Scott Arryn,” he asks through clenched teeth. 

Danny takes a moment to consider the King’s mounting annoyance. On one hand he can continue to feign ignorance and refuse to answer in anything but vague sentences; on the other it might be in his best interest to give the poor man something, as help cut down on his mounting stress. 

“Your Grace… might I speak frankly for a moment,” Danny asks cautiously. 

“Why are the Gods doing this to me,” his father hisses next to him, causing Danny to wince and slouch further in his seat. 

The King is silent for a long moment, staring upon Danny with interest before slowly nodding his head in acquiesce, “If it is the only manner by which you feel comfortable in speaking, then by all means,” he says, motioning with his hand to continue. 

Danny inhales a deep breath and does his best to school his nerves. “I can say with utmost certainty that I do not know where your son and advisor are, nor do I know where my aunt and Scott Arryn are at this moment. I can say however, that despite the rashness of Stiles’ actions, one might suggest you put a bit of faith in them.” 

His father releases a groan beside him; Danny side eyes him and finds a very displeased expression upon his face. 

“I do not pretend to know what goes on the Prince’s mind, but I do know that he would only go against your wishes if he felt it would truly make a profound difference for the better. I was with your son when he questioned Lord Arryn, and I have no doubt that he is in possession of very useful information. I imagine that the Prince undoubtedly felt the same,” Danny says with as much courage as he can muster. 

The King seems contemplative but not displeased, Danny takes it as a good as sign as any to continue. “I imagine Stiles sent Lord Arryn somewhere that his knowledge against the Targaryens would be of use, where this location is I do not know, as I do not—,” 

“As you do not engage in the politics of the capital,” the King finishes with a flat voice and putout expression. Danny gives a sheepish smile in response. 

“You think that Stiles did not act incompetently, you feel he made this decision with the realm in mind,” the King asks sceptically. 

Danny sighs and gives a small wince, “I cannot say for certain… but I do believe that Stiles had the interest of the realm at heart, and not the interest of his friend.” 

The King raises his brows in interest, “You do not suspect he released Lord Arryn beyond our borders, somewhere he could forgo persecution.” 

Danny adamantly shakes his head, “Absolutely not your Grace. Stiles took Lord Arryn’s betrayal quite hard, I doubt he would be interested in helping him escape punishment.” 

The King nods absently and is silent for a long time before he eventually rises from his seat upon the Throne. “Thank you for your time and honesty… even if it was vague at best,” the King says with a bite before turning to his father. “Doran, walk with me. We have matters to discuss.” 

“Of course your Grace,” his father replies. “Behave yourself,” he hisses towards Danny out of the corner of his mouth, before following the King out of the Red Keep. 

Once Danny hears the doors close behind him, he collapses down into a heap and releases a loud sigh of relief. If Stiles thinks that he isn’t going to be calling in a favour for that display, then the young Baratheon may just be the dullest prince that Westeros has ever seen. It is only when Danny begins to rise from his seat that he realises that his father never disclosed any information about Jackson; the Gods truly are pissing on his existence today.

### WINTERFELL

Winterfell had grown unnaturally quiet since war had befallen Westeros; it now harbours a desolate atmosphere that Cora has not experienced since last winter nearly 4 years ago. She is used to hate sitting around stitching with her sister and their septa; now she spends all her time sequestered away with Laura, praying to all the Gods that she will wake. 

Some days they merely sit in quiet, others she simply uses her sister as a source of comfort; someone she can release all her anxieties upon. On this day she sits upon the foot of her sister’s bed, wrapped up in numerous wolf pelts, with a pile of stolen letters filling the space between them. 

Her parents refuse to include her in the matters of the war, using absurd excuses such as her age and supposed innocence to dirty matters. Cora can’t help but snort in amusement at each instance her parents voice fall to hushed tones in her presence. It truly is absurd how little they truly understand her. 

The reality of the matter is that she has been harassing her uncle Peter for war stories since as early as she can remember; and he was always more than happy to oblige. She’s heard tales about him nearly dying at the hands of a Faceless Man; his easy victory over an egocentric blue-haired mercenary; or better yet the time he beheaded a living—honest to Gods—fire breathing dragon. Cora loved his stories, and they did little to dissuade her from wanting to place oneself in a dangerous scenario.

But here at Winterfell, in her sister’s chambers, she is as far from danger as any could ever hope for. The only connection she has to the outside, to adventure and war, is the letters she frequently borrows from her father’s council chambers. She treats them like a game, something to pass the monotonous time that she finds herself floating in. She checks the broken seal to see who sent each letter, and then imagines the grand scenario behind each letter, doing her best to predict what is happening. 

She glances down as the letters before her and then flickers her gaze up to her sister’s still form. “Which one should we read first Laura,” she asks with a small smile, “I personally want to read one from Lord Bolton, but I know that you would want to read the one from Ser Mormont—you always made a fool of yourself in front of him,” she says with a giggle, though sadness returns to her face when she realises her sister cannot respond to her taunt. 

Cora takes a deep breath and places a hand upon her sister’s leg, giving it a squeeze before reaching for the letter from King’s Landing. “I’ll be nice and entertain you today,” Cora says in an exasperated tone, “But just today, don’t expect me to always be this nice,” she warns.

“I think that he is writing to tell father all about how bored he is in the capital, and how he wants nothing more than to ride out into battle alongside the rest of the Northern Lords,” Cora states matter-of-factly. 

She gives Laura a speculative before continuing, “I imagine that you would think he is writing to pledge his undying love to you, since you think everyone is just so in love you,” she says in a sarcastic drawl. “Obviously you are wrong, but let’s take a look shall we.” 

She slowly unrolls the parchment and lets out a putout sigh, “Well we are both wrong, but it isn’t exactly bad news. The Ironborn are being allowed to surrender and scurry home, so we are supposed to report any incidents of them appearing on our land. How utterly boring,” she moans before tossing the parchment over her shoulder. 

She hums and wiggles her fingers in anticipation before grabbing another letter from the pile, her eyes identifying the seal of House Lannister. “House Lannister hmmm,” she mumbles to herself. “I suspect this letter came directly from Parris Lannister himself, something pertaining to that idiot Jackson. Perhaps another update on his wellbeing, no doubt informing us that he has finally learned to say something other than his own name, and learned that the man he sees in shiny surfaces is in fact his own reflection.” 

“In your case however,” Cora says with a roll of her eyes, “I imagine that you once again think someone is writing to you in order to confess their undying love for you… though you might actually be onto something in this scenario,” she says with a smirk, patting her sister on the leg in mocking praise. 

It only takes a second for her mood to flip, as Cora releases an angry shriek and throws a pillow towards the wall in annoyance, “Apparently that oaf Jackson actually did manage to stop staring at his reflection long enough to sink a few ships. If I was allowed to lead a battalion, I would have won this stupid war by now,” she spits out. “I am infinitely smarter than Jackson,” she hisses whilst tossing the pages of the letter onto the floor.

“If I was allowed to actually do something, we would have found Derek by now,” she states in annoyance. “Everyone else is an idiot, I don’t understand how no one can find our stupid brother,” she pouts. “He isn’t even that smart… do you remember that time when he was only 9 and he told father he was running away to marry some little Frey girl. He barely made it two miles before he tried setting up camp and managed to let his fat little pony loose.” 

She releases an annoyed huff before continuing. “There are thousands of soldiers, an impressive number of towns, and countless spies, yet no one has been able to lay eyes upon our stupid brother. He is just a stupid boy who never learns because he never listens. Uncle Peter is always getting after him to pay attention and he never does,” she states in a huff, “Now look where that has gotten him.” 

“He is lost somewhere, and he could be badly injured for all we know. Of course he never bothered to think about what his absence could do to us, because he is a selfish ass who never thinks about anyone but himself!” she yells, tears collecting in her eyes. 

“I just don’t understand why he had to go away, why father allowed him to lead his own men when he had no experience in war. Nothing makes sense anymore, I hate this, I hate everything that has happened since those worthless Targaryens hurt you,” she grits out through clenched teeth. 

“I wish Derek would have broke her neck, I wish father would have taken Gerrard Targaryen’s head clean off…. I wish our family could be whole again,” she says in a broken voice. 

She crosses her arms and stews in anger for a number of minutes before mumbling out an apology to Laura for her temper flaring. Cora maybe a lady, but she isn’t going to let her emotions get the better of her; she refuses to ever be one of those simpering ladies of the court. She is a wolf, and she is strong enough to get through this if she finds the right determination. She releases a long breath and grabs one of the only two remaining letters upon the bed. 

“Lord Bolton,” she says in a contemplative tone. She rolls the parchment around in her hands and hums to herself whilst deep in thought. “I think that he wrote to father in order to tell him about how the Freys are worthless cowards who wants to join us against the rebellion.” 

Cora reaches over and lays another blanket over pelt over Laura, smoothing it out meticulously before continuing. “You probably think he is writing Father about boring things like potato shortages or asking for a new smith. You always have dull ideas, you know that,” she asks despite knowing she will receive no answer. 

She finds that the contents of the letter are much more interesting than she could have hoped. “Lord Bolton has secured a ransom of two thousand gold dragons for Jennifer Frey, apparently House Rowan is willing to pay for her safe return. He was able to raise the ransom from a thousand after sending her father a number of her fingers,” Cora states, her voice creeping high with each word. “He was more than willing to cooperate once her situation was made more obvious,” she states in a stunned voice. 

“Lord Bolton has also butchered the two Freys it seems,” she states with a crack in her voice, “He has garrisoned his forces at the Twins and secured the crossing for our use. The two Freys have been…” she cuts off her sentence to flicker her eyes up to her sister’s form, taking a moment to compose herself, “The two Freys have been interrogated, flayed and disposed off, in compliance with the orders of Lord Peter Stark. They will continue to hold the Twins until further orders.” Cora let’s the letters fall from her hand and onto the stone floor below, as she continues to stare at her sister. 

“I didn’t realize uncle Peter was in support of flaying, father outlawed it years ago in the North. The war seems to be taking its toll on him,” she says in a hushed whisper. “This war is changing everyone,” she remarks with a sob. 

Cora wishes Laura could answer back, she wishes that she would rise up and embrace her; anything to help take away this mounting doubt and worry that refuses to dissipate. 

“Last one before I have to go eat,” she says in a shaky voice, “So you better make this a good guess, because I am pretty certain that I am winning today.” 

Cora slowly reaches forward and grabs the last letter, her eye widening at the broken seal that meets her eyes. “This is from uncle Peter,” she says in a hushed voice, “her eyes darting up to meet her sister’s face in excitement, “Do you think he found Derek,” she squeals in excitement. 

Any joy that had found its way to her face plummets almost immediately upon her reading the letter. It is now replaced by the realization that in war: even the side winning battles can be losing. “He hasn’t found Derek yet,” she prompts with a shaky voice, “And he ran into Kate Targaryen, apparently he is heading west to try and link up with the Lannisters before sweeping the Riverlands,” she finishes in a small whisper.

Cora slowly crawls up the bed and settles herself next to her sister’s prone form, “I wish he could just come home, and I wish he could bring Derek with him. I know he is a bit of an ass, but he is still out brother, and we are the only ones who are allowed to beat on him,” she says in choked voice, tears starting to collect in her eyes. “He has won everything, he keeps winning everything, so why haven’t they surrendered yet. They keep dragging it out but running away and ransacking and pillaging as they go. Why can’t they just meet us in the field so that they can just come home.” 

It is these words that break the dam, and tears begin to flow freely from Cora’s eyes and stain the letter in her hand. Her father will know she took it, but frankly she doesn’t care at the moment. She doesn’t care about anything besides having her family back together and whole once more. She slowly wraps her arms her sister’s abdomen and cries silently into her shoulder. 

Cora hates crying, she hates it more than anything. To bring on tears she has to already be in such a vulnerable and weak state; why should she be made to suffer more. The fact that expressing those emotions of fear and sadness brings her nothing more than additional pain, is reason enough to lock down her empathy and remain cold in the face of reality. 

She doesn’t know how long the tears flow uninhibited, but at some point she manages to fall asleep, the emotional weight of the day taking its toll. When she does wake, it is to a pounding in her head and dry mouth. She releases a groan of pain and slowly sits up, noting the roaring fire as the only source of light in her sister’s chambers. She apparently slept through supper, something her mother is not likely to let slide. 

Reluctantly she detaches herself from her sister and rises from the bed, noting that the letters she absconded earlier have all but vanished; her parents definitely know she took them now. 

“If they kill me for this, I hope you know I am going to haunt you for the rest of your life,” Cora threatens Laura, though there is no real heat in her tone. “It is your fault I fell asleep, you always let me sleep in here when we were little… it was a moment of weakness,” she finishes lamely. 

Cora does one last fix of Laura’s blankets before quietly making her way out into the hall and straight towards her mother’s figure; and extremely unimpressed expression. 

“Damn,” Cora says with a sigh, reluctantly dragging her feet towards her mother and undoubtedly a horrible punishment.

### RIVERRUN

Following the unexpected arrival of Lord Peter Stark at the Ironborn encampment, the Targaryens had no choice but to flee south. Much their surprise, the northerners did not follow them south, nor have any of the scouts been able to find the location of the army. The Targaryen forces have now since made camp with their Tully allies at Riverrun, essentially shutting themselves in, and waiting for the northerners to follow in their stead. 

In the western Riverlands, south of the Whispering Wood, and situated at the point where the Tumblestone and Red Fork rivers meet, is the ancestral castle of Riverrrun. Riverrun is a three-sided castle, enclosed by the two rivers and a massive man-made ditch. In times of turmoil the ditch is filled, and serves as a moat, effectively surrounding the castle on all three sides by water, turning Riverrun into an island is leaving it almost unassailable. 

On this day, the ditch has already been filled, effectively sealing off the citadel from any imminent attacks. The castle is surrounded by the tens of thousands of troops, gathered together under the banners of House Tully and House Targaryen; inside the castle, five hundred soldiers are garrisoned alongside the highborn inhabitants; among them is one Allison Targaryen. 

Allison wasn’t an idiot, she knew that the actions of her sister had left their forces fragmented and for all intents and purposes trapped. Hiding inside the castle at Riverrun would do them no good if they mean to win this war, if anything it has done nothing but set their campaign back further. 

Their forces were meant to stay in the eastern Riverlands, they were never meant to come this far west, but naturally there was no way her sister could possibly let such a slight go unpunished. Unfortunately for them, it is the Targaryens who suffered the most, not the Ironborn; they were already weak and fractured to begin with. Now half their men were garrisoned at Harrenhall, and half were part of the Riverrun motley, doing little more than feeding the mounting animosity that had began to grow since their arrival. 

Allison had expected their new allies to welcome them with open arms, however she realizes now how foolish that sentiment was. Severo and Araya Tully had indeed opened the gates of their castle to them; once Kate had already pledged to keep their remaining troops here for defensive measures. Kate had wanted to send a raven to their father, informing him of their new situation; Araya had immediately refused, stating that with Peter Stark’s whereabouts unknown, it was imprudent to be sending out ravens. 

Allison may be new to warfare, but she also knew one would have to be an idiot to not realize the severity of their current predicament. Since their arrival the Tullys have ben nothing but difficult—the now Victoria Targaryen included. Upon first glance she had assumed Severo was in charge, however upon further inspection it became apparent that Araya truly held the power in their house. He bent around her will; a will that sought to yoke the Targaryen men into protecting their home and their interests. 

Allison had expected Kate to protest, to put up more of a fight, but instead she saw her will subjected beneath the whims of the Tullys; how the mighty have fallen, dragons taking orders from fish. Victoria felt as though her newly acquired name gave her the right to order about the men waving their standards, Allison could hardly believe what she was hearing, never mind that her sister was forced into agreeing with it. 

Kate had already explained to Allison more than once, just how precarious their situation was. The Tullys are their allies, and yes they do need their bannermen to win this war, but if they don’t get out of Riverrun, they are going to find themselves participants in a very bloody siege. Because of this, Kate had been on edge since their arrival, and her behaviour continued to grow more erratic and concerning by the day; this evening was no different. Allison currently found herself seated at the right hand of her sister, allowing her to watch her sister’s descent into madness in the face of the Tully’s mounting passive aggressive taunts. 

Allison chanced a side-eyed glance at her sister, her gaze finding shaking hands and wide eyes. “Have you managed to get a raven off to father yet,” Allison whispers cautiously. 

Kate gives a sharp jerk of her head, “No. I am never alone,” she says quickly, “There are always guards, watching me wherever I go.” 

Allison chances an annoyed look at their hosts. She wishes they would catch her disgusted grimaces; she wishes they would provoke her, give her a reason to slit their throats and be done with this madness. What good are tens of thousands of troops if one is just going to sit behind their walls and cower like children behind their mother’s skirts. If she were in command of these forces, she would have them out there, chasing down Peter Stark and meeting him in the open fields of battle. 

“I’ll try to contact father,” Allison says with a reassuring smile, “They don’t watch me as carefully as they watch you.” She slowly reaches out a hand and takes one of Kate’s in her own, giving it a squeeze. “We don’t need to suffer them, we can leave,” Allison implores. 

Kate’s eyes widen at her sister’s bold words, “What are you suggesting, that we simply rise from the table, march to the front gates and leave with our forces, without facing a single hindrance from the Tullys,” she hisses out in frustration. “I have been trying to get us out of here since our arrival. We were meant to remain here until we learned of Peter Stark’s whereabouts, and I am half a mind to think that the Tullys know where he is and are simply refusing to tell us.” 

“So we send out our own scouts,” Allison suggests, “They can’t call us traitors when we still fight for the same side.” 

Kate scoffs, “They are raving mad. Everything is an imagined slight to them. As long as we remain here as… honoured guests… I am no more commander of my forces, than a guard dog at their side,” she hisses out angrily. 

Allison angrily stabs her knife into the cut of meat on her plate, the sound echoing loudly in the hall, causing all heads at the table to snap up and fix their gaze upon her. 

Victoria looks upon her with an icy glare, “I was expecting better manners from a lady, let alone my sister in law,” she states in a sickly sweet tone. 

Severo raises his brows at the exchange before him, but merely slouches further into his seat and continues to nurse his cup of wine in silence. Araya however, is more than willing to engage the young Targaryen. 

“Do we have a problem,” she poses in a lofty voice, “Surely talking would serve us better than ruining the cutlery.” 

Allison gives Kate a nudge with her elbow, but refuses to break eye contact with Araya Tully; she isn’t going to show weakness, not now. 

Kate steels the Tullys with a hard glare, “What word have your scouts to report on the whereabouts of Peter Stark,” she asks coolly. Allison can feel her heart beat wretch up in tempo, a heavy thud against the inside of her chest. 

A heavy silence hands over the table, as Severo refills his cup without a spoken word, and Araya’s face contorts into an expression of annoyance. Kate’s question remains unanswered for a number of minutes before Kate clears her throat in annoyance, reminding them that she is still waiting for a response. 

“West,” Victoria says simply, as she continues to deliberately cut up the vegetables on her plate. 

Kate and Allison exchange gleeful expressions, “West,” Kate repeats in a thankful voice, “If he has gone west, my forces are free to leave and regroup at Harrenhal.” 

Allison is already shoving her chair back from the table and hastily rising when her world is once again thrown. 

“No,” Victoria states, “The Targaryens entered into an alliance with House Tully when I wed your brother, and so long as that rabid wolf remains in the west, your forces shall remain here to protect their sworn lords and ladies.” 

“They are our forces,” Allison grits out between bared teeth, “You cannot command the men under Targaryen banners.” 

Victoria lazily raises a brow, “Do I not bear the name Targaryen,” she asks airily. 

Allison can feel her blood beginning to boil under her skin; how dare she refer to herself as a dragon, when all she has done to earn the title is recite a vow and spread her legs. “Look,” Allison prompts, managing to recite the words through a clenched jaw, “I understand that in your eyes, you think you are helping but—”

“But what,” Victoria interjects. “Am I not the eldest Targaryen here; am I not thus tasked with making the decisions that would best serve our family,” she asks with a raise of her brows. 

In the blink of an eye Kate has risen from her seat and reached across the table to seize Victoria by the collar of her gown, pulling her forward across the table towards them. With her free hand, she reaches out and grasps a burning candle, giving no care to the heat of the flame of melting wax dripping down upon her hand. 

The Tully guards within the hall spring into action, drawing their swords and advancing on Allison and Kate, until Araya quickly motions for them to stop in a panic; the fear evident on her face. “Let’s not make any rash decisions my dear,” Araya says in a warning tone; Kate pays no heed to her words, instead her attention remains upon Victoria. 

“You are no Targaryen,” Kate says in a sharp tone, “But if you feel the need to prove it to us, by all means, we can let the fire decide if you are a true dragon or not.” She moves the candle to mere inches from Victoria’s now petrified face, and watches with glee as the flame dances across it. 

“House Tully has sworn an oath of fealty to House Targaryen, and in response your father vowed to protect our lands and our interests,” Araya says slowly, carefully extended a hand out towards Victoria’s rigid form. “If you harm her, not only will you have neutralized our pact, but I can promise you that you will not leave this hall alive.” 

“Then neither will you,” Allison retorts. “We are the blood of Old Valyria, the Dragon’s daughters, and you think that you have the right to stand here and threaten us? We do not bow and simper, we take what is ours with fire and blood,” Allison continues, shooting her sister a sharp grin. “By which would you prefer to die,” she asks, unsheathing her sword in a swift movement. 

“Wait—Wait,” Victoria says in a hoarse voice. 

“Get. To. The. Point,” Kate responds, positioning the flame so it begins to heat the flesh upon her sister in law’s neck. 

“You need us as much as we need you. You cannot defeat the combined forces of the Starks, Lannisters and Baratheons without our bannermen, and we cannot withstand a lengthy siege without your aid,” Victoria continues with a dying whisper. 

Allison knows they are treading on dangerous territory, but she refuses to put down her sword, or yield in the face of adversity. If they are going to die, they will do so after taking down their treacherous allies with them. 

“House Targaryen needs the support of the Tullys to win the war, and our bannermen will be of no use to you if you leave us here for the Stark forces,” Victoria repeats in a pleading tone. 

“Battles aren’t fought by cowering behind tall walls,” Allison interjects, “They are fought out in the open. No one is going to win anything if spend our time sitting here and hiding like cowards.” 

Kate’s face morphs from an expression of outrage to one of amusement, “Now Ally, I know you always paid attention in your lessons, tell me; what side did House Tully declare allegiance to during the last Rebellion,” Kate asks innocently. 

Allison wracks her brain, but can only look upon her sister with confusion, “I don’t know,” she finally responds after a moment. 

Kate turns her sharp gaze back towards Victoria, “Perhaps you can enlighten my little sister,” she suggests in an icy tone, “Where was House Tully when we needed their support last?” 

“House Tully remained neutral,” Victoria answers quickly. Kate shakes her head in annoyance before roughly shoving Victoria’s throat down upon the flame of candle she still holds firmly within her grip. 

Allison’s nose is quickly assaulted by the smell of burning flesh, and screams fill the air, alongside the clang of the dinnerware as she thrashes about upon the table. Allison glances over her shoulder and sees the guards shifting anxiously one the balls of their feet, hands still wrapped tightly around the hilts of their swords. 

“Wrong,” Kate sing songs in amusement, before roughly shoving Victoria away from her and back to her side of the table, and into the waiting arms of her worried mother. “You worthless cowards did exactly what you are doing now. You hid behind your tall walls and feigned indifference, until the King and his army came knocking at your gates demanding you retake your oath of fealty.” 

Victoria’s form remains upon the stone floor, her mother Araya fussing over the bubbling, bleeding wound that now resides upon her throat. “Fire cannot harm a dragon,” Allison says quietly. 

Kate directs a sharp grin towards Araya and Victoria before drawing her own sword, “You never did answer my sister before, by which means would you rather perish; fire or blood,” she asks with barred teeth. 

“Enough,” comes a bored voice from the head of the table, the head of House Tully all but forgotten. He releases a loud sigh and reluctantly places his now empty cup upon the table. “As much as I enjoy watching the hysterics before me, it is quite apparent no one is going to leave this hall alive unless I step in.” 

Allison quickly flickers her gaze back and forth between her sister and Severo Tully, unsure of how to act. Kate merely raises an unimpressed brow at his sudden interruption. 

“Victoria, you are my daughter and will one day make a capable leader, but you are no military commander. Everyone enjoys hearing the horns of war, and watching their banners flutter in the wind, but it always comes down to a butcher in the thick of it. And frankly, Lady Kate is our butcher,” he adds with a tight smile. 

Kate preens at his words and makes a grand display of sheathing her sword, and motions for Allison to do the same. Severo gives a delighted clap of his hands in response before turning to his wife and daughter once again. “Now was that so hard,” he asks in a condescending tone. 

“Please sit, you are our guests here,” he suggests, whilst motioning to the empty seats of to the still standing Targaryens. Allison swallows nervously and turns her attention to his sister, silently asking her for orders. Kate stares at Allison in contemplation for a moment before motioning towards their seats. 

Once Kate and Allison retake their seats, he refills his cup of wine and passes the pitcher towards them. “As head of House Tully, I can promise you that you will indeed remain in charge of your forces station here around Riverrun,” Severo says evenly, “However, as it has also been pointed out, we are in need of your immediate military aid if you expect us to provide you the same courtesy in the near future.” 

Kate slowly fills herself a cup of wine and motion for Allison to do the same. “I expect to not have my command questioned again,” Kate says in a dark tone. 

Allison swirls the wine around in her cup but finds that she has no interest in the contents. The atmosphere in the hall is still far too charged for her, and the Tully men have yet to stand down and resume their relaxed positions. Across the table, Araya is holding a linen cloth to Victoria’s throat, the latter sitting stock-still, her face a cool mask of indifference. Allison can’t help but smirk at their small victory. 

Allison respects Victoria, after all she saw what she wanted and tried to take it; that is something she understands. However, she overstepped her bounds and tried to take something that was never hers to control, and as such Kate was forced to act on their behalf. 

Severo nods his head in agreement, “Of course, I’ll see to it that my daughter does not overstep her bounds again,” he states before taking a long drink from his cup. “I must ask though, in your opinion as a commander… if your forces were not garrisoned here, how easily would Peter Stark destroy my own.” 

Kate takes a moment to contemplate the question at hand, a hard look set upon her face. “I would not matter if he had thousands of men remaining, or just himself; the outcome of the battle would remain the same.” 

Severo steels her with a hard look, but remains interested in her response, waving a hand absently for Kate to continue. 

“I do not know how many of your men he would kill, but I can promise you he would be sure to slit all of your throats down to the bone, long before he would take his last breath,” Kate replies in a even tone. 

The self-important grin falls from Severo’s face and is quickly replaced by a sneer, “You two must tired, perhaps you should return to your chambers for the evening.” He waves a hand absently and a number of guards step forward, “These men shall escort you, a caution to ensure you are not wandering the halls, all but lost due to your current conditions,” he says with an empty smile. 

Allison can almost swear she hears he sister’s jaw pop from the amount of force she is grinding down upon it. “Most generous of you, my lord,” she replies with a wide smile. “Shall we sister,” Allison asks lightly, though her eyes do not betray her worry. 

Kate does not remove her narrowed gaze from Severo but she rises from her seat all the same. “Come along Ally,” she says quietly, taking her sister’s hand and leading them out of the hall towards their chambers. 

Allison doesn’t know whether she is meant to be counting that supper as a victory or a loss; worse yet, Kate’s far away stare and painful grip on her hand is doing little to ease her mind. 

She chances a glance over her shoulder at the guards flanking them and decides to keep her mouth shut; now is not the time to continue their earlier hushed words. Allison is willing to admit she out of her element, the games of lords and ladies have never been her strong suit, but she isn’t going to go down without a fight. 

When they reach their chambers, Allison turns to her sister and gives her hand a hard squeeze, hoping she can convey her unwavering support. Much to her relief, Kate squeezes back equally hard and a small smirk plays across her lips. Allison knows she will have to wait until the morning to speak with her sister, but at least she can sleep easy knowing there is already a plan forming in her sister’s mind.

### CASTERLY ROCK

Whilst numerous other realms within Westeros have been plunged into total war, the Westerlands has remained unscathed. At its core lies Casterly Rock, continuing to stand as tall and proud as the lions that call it home. Whilst Jackson Lannister did not always call Casterly Rock his home, he has spent the majority of his life within these citadel walls. Consequently, that also means he has indeed spent the majority of his life fighting for the respect he deserves. 

Since his impressive victory at the Sunset Sea, and after dealing his now notorious deathblow to Quenton Greyjoy, Jackson has found his name commands more respect than it did previous; something he is not going to let slip away. He gives blow-by-blow accounts to any who ask, and is more than willing to talk strategy with the commanders who now view him as an equal. 

The problem is that Jackson’s mind has been elsewhere for weeks; it has been so since he first began receiving letters from one Lydia Tyrell. At first he brushed them, and was anything but concerned with her apparent worries about the war, after all Highgarden’s defenses are impenetrable from an outside attack, only a fool would worry. However, as the letters have progressed, her worries have grown more concerning. 

She writes about hearing voices whispering in the halls, voices talking of civil war and rebellion; voices who would not hesitate to slit her throat as she sleeps. She writes of the valuables going missing, numbers from the storerooms not adding up, and strange faces she does not recognize. Unfortunately, her worries are beginning to faze him. 

Jackson understands the realities of war, but what he also understands is that Lydia is innocent in the face of her parents’ treasonous acts. Lydia would never openly rebel against the Crown; she knows that would gain her no favours in life. It is because of this that Jackson has begun to read over his collection of letters, hoping to find some indication of lies or deceits within her words; he has been forced to admit that perhaps his eyes are clouded by their years of friendship. 

Jackson knows that romantically he has always been a fleeting fancy to Lydia, but that does not remove the years of friendship and honest kindness she bestowed upon him. This is why he now reluctantly seeks out council, seeks out a means to put to rest his worries, and at the very least find some sense of closure that will allow him to close the door on this chapter of his life. 

He strides his was purposefully through the halls of the castle and towards his destination, hoping that the man he seeks will be able to help him. When he arrives at the chamber he tentatively knocks on the door and waits to be acknowledged. 

“Enter,” a voice calls from within, prompting Jackson to slowly push open the door and close it quietly behind him. 

Jackson turns around and looks upon the curious face of his uncle Parris Lannister, who seems quite surprised to see him standing here. “What can I do for you,” his uncle inquires. 

“I…” Jackson starts lamely before breaking off, as his nerves get the better of him. Gods be good his uncle is in a forgiving mood today, and waits patiently for him to continue. “I… need your help,” he finishes quietly. 

Parris’s face contorts into a look of concern, “Sit down, you look like you might fall over,” he says motioning towards a chair beside him. “Now, what it is that you need help with,” he asks as Jackson collapses in the seat opposite him. 

Jackson releases a loud sigh and scrubs his hand over his face, before slowly reaching into his jacket and throwing Lydia’s letters onto the table in front of his uncle. “Lydia has been writing to me,” he says guiltily. 

Parris slowly reaches out and picks up the letters, and begins to scan over the earliest one. “Have you replied to any of these,” he inquires. 

Jackson shakes his head, “No. I didn’t think it was wise.” 

His uncle absently nods his head in agreement, “An astute observation.” 

The conversation hits a lull as his uncle quickly reads through the letters, in turn Jackson occupies his mind by watching the flames dance in the fireplace. He finds it oddly relaxing, especially given his current predicament. He isn’t saying his uncle is going to casually toss him into the flames for recklessly keeping in contact with a know rebel; but he isn’t going to deny the likelihood he would do such a thing to a guilty party. Sometimes accidental deaths really do make things run smoother. 

After what feelings like an eternity, his uncle releases a long sigh and tosses the letters into the flames before them, before once again fixing his gaze upon Jackson. 

“Are you going to kill me now,” Jackson asks in faux confident voice, a crack giving away his worry. 

His uncle gives an amused snort in response. “No Jackson, I am afraid that would raise far too many questions, and frankly I have no interest in dealing with your temperamental father, or my ever-so-loving sister,” he replies in a dry voice. 

Jackson raises a sceptical brow, “Davyd would probably hold a tournament in your honour for removing such a burden from his life,” he states in a self-deprecating tone. 

Parris levels Jackson with a look of complete exasperation, “Davyd is neither to whom I refer, nor do I happen to give a single shit about his happiness.” Parris leans forward in his seat and grasp both of Jackson’s shoulders, giving him a small shake until he meets his eyes. “Regardless of what has happened in your life, you are a Lannister by blood, and thus you will always be better than any of those who seek to place judgement upon you.” 

“Last I checked, Davyd also held the name Lannister,” Jackson replies flatly. 

Parris tips his head in agreement, “Yes, he is a Lannister, but not one of the Lannisters. Our family name is the sole reason that anyone dignifies him with the smallest shred of respect. People will always talk, and you will always hear their words. However, it is up to you to chose if you are going to consider the opinions of sheep, or if you would rather cull the herd and watch the others fall into line.” 

Jackson anxiously taps his fingers against his knees, “Do you really think I am capable of that? I have spent my entire life listening to the mocking words of others, why would they suddenly stop now,” he questions angrily. 

Parris, much to Jackson’s dismay is merely smiling back at him. “You father is neither warden of a realm, lord of a castle, or heir to one. He does not hold grand titles, he is a not a knight, nor does he venture into the matters of government or politics. Yet he is without a doubt, one of the most feared and respected men in all of Westeros. I am asking you, why is that.” 

Jackson shrugs, “Because he is good with a sword,” he questions more than answers. 

Parris gives a small chuckle in response, “Yes and No. He is one of the most deadly swordsmen I have ever encountered, however he is also quite good at exploiting the worries of others. He doesn’t run a sword through every individual who has offended him, in turn he plays the game, and forms alliances, forcing those who have wronged him into wilful submission.” 

Jackson gives a small smirk, “So respect isn’t gained through fear. Respect is gained through power.” 

Parris gives a small grimace, “Close but no. Power isn’t an object; it isn’t something one can hold in their hand. Peter Stark has power because everyone knows what he is a capable of. If you have to remind the people why you should be respected, you do not deserve their respect.” 

Jackson contorts his face into a confused expression, “I am afraid you seem to have lost me,” he says lamely. 

His uncle gives a warm laugh in response. “I am Lord of Casterly Rock, the warden of the Westerlands, and if the Gods continue to bless my house, I will continue to be the wealthiest man in all of the realms. I am the Hand of the King and on the best of days he will never question my suggested courses of actions, making me the most powerful man in Westeros. However, many people still feel the need to question the fact I am unwed, and thus have yet to produce an heir; they ultimately feel this has made me an ineffective ruler, and that I am driving House Lannister into the ground.” 

“They’re bloody idiots,” Jackson says plainly. “House Lannister has done nothing but prosper under you; the fact you have yet to wed is completely irrelevant to your ability as head of house.” 

His uncle gives him a blinding smile in response. “Precisely why I choose to ignore them, and brush off their words as the worthless babble it is. However, it is no different than how at the age of ten and six, you have started to become not only an impressive commander, but you are also responsible for the crippling of the Greyjoy Rebellion in one swift naval battle. Yet some still find it necessary to focus on your parentage, something—as you put it—is completely irrelevant to your abilities.” 

Jackson gives a small grimace, “What you are saying is that so long as I conduct myself in a manner that eludes to power, everyone will fall into line,” he questions sceptically. 

Parris leans back in his seat and sighs, “I am telling you, that as a Lannister the world has already been made easier for you. The opinions of those below you do not matter, unless you allow them to break you down and change your opinion of yourself, and thus your actions. You alone are responsible for how much power you wield, and the amount of the respect you cultivate in turn.” 

Jackson once again begins to feel lost in his uncle’s endless lesson, until a memory of Lydia materializes in his mind. She had always been quick to remind him that he was better than those who judged him; he was a Lannister. Jackson had always considered her words as an allusion to his inevitable wealth and standing, now he thinks that perhaps her words had carried deeper meaning. 

“Power resides where men believe it resides,” Jackson says quietly. 

His uncle’s face lights up in a proud expression. “Quite the wordsmith,” he says clapping Jackson on the shoulder. 

“Lydia… Lydia told me that once. I never put much stock into it,” Jackson says, turning his gaze to the fire. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see an impressed look and amused smile find its way to his uncle’s face. “Lydia Tyrell could survive this war on wit alone, she is not to be underestimated. I half suspect if the opportunity presented itself she would ruling her own realm by now.” 

Jackson gives a small smile at his uncle’s words. “Lydia has never needed help when it came to manipulating those around her.” 

Parris nods his head absently, “No she has not. However, she is running low on options, hence why I suspect she wrote to you.” 

Jackson fails to hold in an amused snort, and levels his uncle with an unimpressed gaze, “Lydia has never been one to sit back and watch matters unfold. She likes to be there in the thick of things. The Tyrells are barely in this war at all, and yet she isn’t content to let the soldiers fight the war for her.” 

His uncle gives an unimpressed scowl in response, “Don’t be so quick to undermine the power of words, and inflate the value of soldiers. Soldiers are only of value so long as their commander is competent. Without that to rely upon, they become no more than a wall constructed of human corpses.” 

Jackson feels a chill run through him at his uncle’s words. “Is that what you think she wanted me for? She was going to have me rush to the Reach in hopes of saving her, and then she would turn around and kill me,” he questions in a hurt tone. 

Parris shrugs, “Doubtful, she would have likely had you thrown in the dungeons and used as a bargaining chip. Something to allow House Tyrell to escape consequence for their actions, and maintain their wardenship once all the dust has settled.” 

Jackson turns his gaze from his uncle, to look at the ashes of Lydia’s letters. “I know it is a small chance, but what of the odds she is truly in danger,” he questions quietly. 

“We will verify the legitimacy of her claims when our forces take Highgarden,” Parris replies with a cherry smile, “Until then, you will have to remove that girl from your mind, and focus on the task at hand; putting an end to this ridiculous war.” 

Jackson once again begins to anxiously tap his fingers against his leg, “Am I allowed to tell her as much—the fact I will check on her at some point,” he finishes lamely. 

His uncle takes a moment to deliberate before answering. “No dates, locations, or particulars. But you may tell her that you will make your presence known at some point in the future,” he says with the order clear in his voice. 

“I thought the Florents were meant to secure control over the Reach,” Jackson inquires in a measured voice. 

His uncle gives an annoyed sigh, “They were meant to, however they seem to be bickering amongst themselves over the amount of blood they are willing to shed. Frankly, I could careless what they decide on, so long as they do us all a favour and take care of Christophe Targaryen once and for all.” 

Jackson raises a questioning brow at his uncle’s words, “He is causing problems for them?”

His uncle waves a dismissive hand, “Sacking towns, burning crops… the usual Targaryen fire and blood nonsense. However, my patience for their hysterics is beginning to thin, and if he isn’t dealt with soon, I am going to have to send our own men to put him down.” 

Jackson absently taps his fingers against his knee in contemplation, “I’d be willing to take a number of our men south—if you would allow it that is.” 

A smirk finds its way to uncle’s face, “I have no doubt that you would jump at the opportunity. However, it is growing late and decisions such as these are best left for clearer minds. We can talk more in the morning,” the dismissal carries clear in his voice. 

Jackson gives a sharp nod of his head, “Thank you for your help uncle,” Jackson says in an even tone. His uncle gives a small smile in response and waves him off, his cue to retire for the evening. 

Jackson stands and quickly makes his way towards the door. “One more thing Jackson,” his uncle calls towards his retreating form. “When you do ride out again, you will be taking a squire with you. You now find yourself in a position where it would be imprudent of you not to.” 

“A squire,” Jackson parrots back slowly, “By what reasoning could I possibly require a squire,” he asks sceptically. 

“A favour to your cousins,” his uncle says simply, turning his attention back to the papers on his desk. 

Jackson wracks his mind quickly in attempt to understand his uncle’s words. “You surely don’t mean that whiny pri—,” 

“I surely do mean your cousin Liam. A boy who also bears the name Lannister,” his uncle voices in a harsh tone. “I am aware that it has been mere minutes since we discussed the importance of our family name and legacy, but if you have forgotten I am sure a reminder could be supplied for your benefit.” 

Jackson remains silent, his cheeks growing hot in embarrassment. 

“Very well then,” Parris continues, “Your presence has been excused, if you wish to discuss our family lineage at a future time, I am sure we can find a moment to do so, but for this evening your presence is no longer required,” he states with a biting tone. 

Jackson grits his teeth in annoyance but bows his head and excuses himself all the same, quickly heading off towards his own room. Things hadn’t gone exactly how he had wanted, but frankly the fact he left unscathed is more than he expected. 

He may have to abandon Lydia for now, but at least his uncle understands his desire to see his friend alive and well one last time. Lydia may not be the center of his world, such as she once was, but she is still important to him. Important enough that he isn’t going to brush aside her worries without a second thought. 

Lydia is strong and he has no doubt she will manage to survive off of her wits alone until he is able to see her. The only question is if he will find a woman who has truly been under siege, or if he will see no more than an old friend, turned foe in hopes of manipulating him into serving her a greater purpose. 

Jackson is fortunate enough to have a mother and uncle he can lean on for support; otherwise he has no doubt that things would have gone south for him quite quickly. He will do what his uncle has ordered him to do; he will write to Lydia to tell her of his immanent arrival. However, her self-satisfied smile will no doubt pale, when he is accompanied by the Lannister forces, and breaking down the gates of Highgarden— even if he has to tote that annoying shit of a cousin along with him. 

Jackson is looking forward to this shining moment, honestly it has been far too long since he was last able to take leave Lydia Tyrell speechless, and frankly he feels this is just the manner by which to do so. She always told him that he was meant for great things, helping set him on his path towards greatness; now she will experience it first hand. After all, a Lannister always pays his debts.

### BRIGHTWATER KEEP

In the southern lands of the Reach one finds the castle of Brightwater Keep; the seat of House Florent. Because of its strategic placement near the Honeywine, Honeyholt, Bandallon and Mander rivers, its lands and holdings are among some of the most fertile and valuable land within the Seven Kingdoms. 

The Florents have held possession of Brightwater Keep for centuries, allowing them to cultivate not only power and influence, but also an impressive wealth that could match that of House Tyrell. 

Since to onset of the Rebellion, many months ago, House Florent had openly aligned itself with the Crown and led numerous houses within the Reach in peaceful resistance against the Tyrells. Unfortunately, their peaceful resistance was met with great loss upon the arrival of Christophe Targaryen and the destruction his forces began to wreak upon them. Nonetheless, House Florent refused to participate in a violent protest, and continued to support the crown through peaceful intervention—at least until now. 

The eldest daughter of Ryam and Noshiko Florent had begun to grow suspicious of the mounting activity within the citadel walls. Kira and her sister Rinko had been actively participating in their peaceful war effort through aiding in the organisation of supply routes and performing medical duties upon the injured who arrive at their city gates. 

Activity was nothing new to Brighwater Keep, but there was something about the increase in tradesmen that had Kira growing suspicious. There was never a need for such an influx of smiths, carpenters, herbalists or even leather workers; there was something going on, and she was going to figure out exactly what was the cause of it. 

Kira feigned ill to her sister, and left her alone to take stock of the medical stores alone, as she went off to investigate the strange influx of new faces. Normally Kira was more than willing to leave these matters to her parents, to leave them in the hands of capable adults; however war is never a normal scenario. 

Kira began to carefully creep her way through the bustling castle, trying to find anything or anyone that would appear suspicious After what seemed like hours of sneaking about the corridors to no avail, she admitted defeat and decided to collapse in the gardens in order to form a new plan. 

She had barely collapsed upon the lush grass and had only begun to release a loud groan when a familiar whistling had her covering her mouth with her own hands. She diligently held her breath and waited until the whistling passed her location, keeping out of view from the man in question. 

Kira slowly rose up onto her toes and peeked over the half wall, watching her uncle Rhys saunter his way towards the council chamber. He looked be in a good mood, happily slicing up an apple with a knife and eating the ripe fruit without a care in the world. 

“Why are you so happy,” Kira muttered to herself. Her uncle and father hadn’t been getting along for ages; it was surprising to see a smile on his face after so many dark days. “Why could they possibly want you in the council chamber,” she continues, twisting her face into a confused grimace. 

Rhys removed the final slice from his apple, haphazardly tossing the core over his shoulder into the gardens, just narrowing missing Kira’s head as it hit the ground and bounced in the grass. 

Kira releases a thankful sigh and watches as her uncle makes his way into the chamber, shutting the door behind him and cutting off the buzz of whispering voices from within. She knits her brow in annoyance and slowly creeps along the wall, attempting to find herself a spot closer to the council chamber. 

Much to her dismay, the only spot from which she can hear anything is directly outside the chamber door—with her ear pressed up against it no less. There is absolutely nothing clandestine about her current actions, but her curiosity wins out over her self-preservation. 

The voices are still muffled, but frankly Kira is willing to take whatever she can get. Her eyes carefully flicker around her surroundings and deem it safe to take up post at the door. She gingerly kneels down and presses herself up against the thick wooden door, and prays to the Gods she is able to at least decipher half of what is being said. 

“You are late,” a woman says in a tersely, her grandmother Satomi if she is not mistaken. 

Kira can hear a scoff in response, and a chair scrapping upon the floor. She assumes her grandmother must be addressing her uncle; apparently the summons was the catalyst of his good mood. 

“What news from Old Oak,” her father asks, straight to the point as usual. 

Her uncle releases a dramatic sigh, “No care for how I am,” he asks in a mocking voice. “Do you hold no care for how I bravely rode out on your orders, mere miles from the Targaryen lines, risking my life for your whims?” 

Kira can barely contain a burst of laughter at her uncle’s hysterics, he has always had a unique sense of humour; one her parents have never been able to fully understand. 

“No… well that is disappointing,” Rhys states with a pout in his voice. “And here I thought bravery was rewarded in the Reach, such a disappointment.” 

“Rhys…” comes her grandmother’s voice thick with warning. 

“By the Gods you are a dry lot today,” Rhys replies with a sneer, “Old Oak is fine, their defenses have been supplemented and they are more than willing to supply men to our offensive push.” 

“How many houses are prepared to take up arms,” her mother prompts. 

“Hightower naturally, Beesbury, Bulwer, Cuy, Costayne, Mullendore, Tarly, Hunt, and now Oakheart… though it is under a certain condition,” he answers casually. 

“What condition,” her father asks flatly. 

“Ask nicely,” Rhys singsongs back to his older brother. Kira is forced to cover her mouth and nose with her arm in order to keep a loud snort as bay. Perhaps his good mood is simply derived from being able to annoy her father to no end. 

“Enough Rhys,” comes the angry voice of her mother, the command in her tone is clear enough to send a shiver down Kira’s spine. 

“Something about fighting with honour,” he supplies in a mocking voice. “You know the Oakhearts, they are all about neutrality and by neutrality I mean whatever keeps their head attached to their shoulders.” 

“War is merely an extension of politics,” her mother replies coolly. 

Rhys gives a snort of amusement at his sister in law’s response, “It isn’t I who you need to impress with your honour, for I am already a loyal sword at your command dear sister.” Kira can almost see the sharp smile playing across his face. 

“Lord Rowan of Goldengrove is also willing to join us, though that is contingent upon Brandon Stark releasing his daughter from the clutches of the Boltons,” Rhys says with a sharp laugh. 

“You sound sceptical of her release,” her father presses. 

Rhys releases a chorus of boisterous laughter in response, “You have obviously never met the Boltons,” he adds in a mocking tone. “There is nothing they love more than a new toy to carve up, and they already broke the Freys they were given.” 

“We shouldn’t count on his aid,” her grandmother adds after a moment of silence. “The Boltons are not likely to release her unless they are paid a great sum. They are comfortable with their position in the North, gold will do little to sway their allegiance.” 

Her father releases a putout sigh, “We shall push from the South with the Houses who are willing to aid in an offensive, and the Lannisters shall attack from the North. Many lives are going to be lost, but hopefully we can put an end to the Tyrells and Targaryens before they burn half of the Reach to the ground.” 

Kira can barely believe what she is hearing. Her parents have spent months swearing by the Seven that they would not engage in an offensive, that their war effort would be one without bloodshed, one that the people would back in unity for a peaceful resolution. 

There is only a brief moment of hesitation before she shoves her weight into the door and collapses into the room. “You swore to me that we wouldn’t be like the Tyrells, you swore that we wouldn’t make men die for peace,” she yells in a hurt voice. 

Her father’s face softens to an expression of regret, “Kira there is nothing else that can be done, we need to lose the few for the survival of the many.” 

Kira dusts herself off as she stands and stalks her way towards her seated family members, “The lives of the few for the many,” she parrots back in disgust, “And just how many men are the unlucky few, just how many poor people are sending to the slaughter.” 

“Kira you don’t understand the complexities at work,” her mother states, “We can’t save everyone without the sacrifice of the brave.” 

“No I understand just fine,” Kira spits back. “House Tyrell deals in death, they have done nothing but drive our realm towards the darkness. House Florent deals in life, our House is older and wiser than House Tyrell, we have the means to restore it to its former power,” she argues. 

Her father, mother, and grandmother look upon her with conflicted expressions, unsure of how to handle her uncharacteristic outbursts. Kira has never had this empty feeling in the pit of her stomach, but now she truly knows what utter helplessness fells like. 

“Is there nothing we can do, is there no other option to save the lives of our Bannermen,” she begs, “We are meant to save their lives, not call out for their deaths.”

“Kira…” her father says quietly, rising from his seat and walking towards her slowly. “I wish there was another way, but we cannot protect the realm, if we cannot make the decisions in its governance.” 

Kira makes no effort to move when her father embraces her in a tight embrace, placing a light kiss upon the crown of her head. “I’m sorry my dear,” her father says soothingly. 

Her uncle clearing his voice interrupts the heavy silence that hangs in the council chamber. “If I may brother… there is another option; a more peaceful option,” he adds in an airy voice. 

“What,” Kira says quietly, flickering her gaze between her uncle and father. 

“Would that ease your worry Kira,” Rhys asks, “Would you feel our House’s honour would remain in tact if there was way which forgoes an offensive push. The Lannisters would still be required in the North against the Targaryen commander, but our hands would remain clean.” 

“How.” Her mother says flatly. “How can you promise this,” she asks in a cold voice. 

“You know my many talents sister,” Rhys says with a wicked grin. “I promise you that no innocent blood shall be shed, only those who deserve their swift retribution.” 

“Yes,” Kira replies without missing a beat. She turns her pleading eyes to her father, “Please, you said if there was another way.” 

Her father turns a sceptical look upon his brother, “Why did you not mention this earlier if there is no chance for failure?” 

Rhys gives a half-hearted shrug in response, “It wouldn’t exactly be your ideal methodology. There is no quiet push for power, there is no unity of the masses; there is just a clean cut seizure of power.” 

Ryam and Noshiko both turn their gazes to Satomi, the unasked question hanging in the air. “How many men do you require,” she asks Rhys in a biting tone. 

Rhys leans forward, placing his chin upon steepled fingers, “That’s the beauty of it, I only require my usual guard, the opposing forces shall fall into line quite quickly,” he replies with a wide smile. 

“Please,” Kira pleads again. There is nothing she wants more than to keep their bannermen from war, she has seen enough death and despair from her time working as a healer alongside her sister. She has seen unidentifiable corpses; limbs removed without milk of the poppy to be administered; families torn apart without good cause. 

Her plea for mercy goes unanswered for many minutes of silence, her grandmother internally mulling over her options. She engages in a silent conversation with Ryam and Noshiko, their eyes saying what they refuse to voice allowed. Eventually a decision is reached. 

“See that it is done,” Satomi orders. 

Rhys rises from his chair with that wide smile still in place and begins to saunter towards the door, stopping only to place a quick kiss upon Kira’s head. “Don’t worry little one, I’ll be quick about it,” he whispers in her ear before pulling back and continuing towards his task. 

Just as he reaches the door, Satomi once again makes her will known. “If you kill anyone who does not deserve retribution, you will share the same fate,” she says in a threatening voice. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Rhys replies with a snigger, before sauntering out of the room. 

Kira tightly wraps her arms around her father and releases a stream of thanks for sparing the lives of their bannermen. The dreaded feeling in her stomach begins to dissipate, and a sensation of calm takes over. No one shall be forced to suffer anymore, her uncle shall see to that.

### THE TRIDENT

Things had been going well, too well if Derek was honest. Erica and he had finally settled into a routine, they were finally working together as a unit with the same goal in mind; which why of course everything went straight to the seventh hell. 

“We are going to die,” Erica hissed out in a panicked tone, eyes wide in fright.

“Be quiet,” Derek hissed back through clenched teeth, refusing to remove his eyes from the Targaryen raiding party growing nearer. “Just stay close and stay low, there is nothing for them here,” he insists. 

“There is nothing for them here but two high profile prisoners,” Erica argues back. “We need to run, we need to get out of here,” she implores. 

Derek spares her a quick withering look, “Trust me, there is no reason for them to stop, they are a raiding party and there is nothing to raid at the mouth of the rivers, and they are not carrying any goods to transport.”

Erica has arisen from her crouched position and is now pacing in tight circles, whispering a fervent chorus of no, each repetition more panicked than the next. “I am not dying at the hands of some raiding party, I want to do things with my life Derek, I want to be someone,” she states in a rising voice. 

“Quiet Erica!” Derek chastises, keeping an ever watchful on the approaching men. He is certain they are safe here, he is certain he can keep them safe, all she has to do is trust him.

In hindsight he should have questioned if he could really trust her loyalty towards him, as all he hears is a whispered ‘I’m sorry’ before there is a sharp pain in the back of his head, and spots of darkness consume his vision. The last thought that fills his head is how utterly sick he is growing of people nocking him around, before nothingness takes over. 

The next sensation he feels is sharp sting upon his face, joined quickly by a throbbing in his head. His limbs refuse to cooperate and his whole body feels heavy. There is a weight upon his chest, but he cannot muster enough energy to fight it. 

There is a constant buzzing, and the longer he hears it the more it begins to sound like words. A constant repetition, of what and from whom he cannot tell. He tries with all his might and manages release a weak groan, coupled with a meagre flutter of his eyelids. Given the darkness they are greeted by it is now night, or the blow has left his eyesight damaged; he can only hope for the later. 

At his small movements, the voice begins to grow louder and he is gifted another harsh stinging slap to his face. It is enough to shock his system and his eyes fly open in face of the pain; the sight he sees before him is not one he would have ever expected. 

Seated upon his chest, white knuckles fisted in his tunic, is Stiles. His entire form is shaking, and his eyes are shining with unshed tears, a worried expression set upon his face. “Are you alright,” Derek asks in pained voice. 

“Am I alright—am I alright,” Stiles asks, his tone voice rising with each word. “You utter arse Derek Stark,” he yells, delivering another harsh slap to his face before the young prince collapses forward and buries his face into Derek’s neck, his hands clasped tightly onto him, nails digging into his skin. 

“You deserved that,” comes an amused voice from their right, prompting Derek to shift his gaze to an approaching figure. “You owe me two debts for this little adventure.” 

“Boyd,” Derek says in a relieved voice, “What are you doing here?”

Boyd levels Derek with an unimpressed look, “Logic would suggest I am here to help your little prince rescue you, and ensure he does not end up skewered by Taragaryen swords for his efforts.” 

Derek manages a weak grin, “Thank you,” he replies, slowly raising a hand up to cup the back of Stiles' neck. He had meant for it to be a comforting gesture, however he earns a sharp jab to the ribs courtesy of Stiles’ elbow for his efforts.

“Don’t patronise me you honourable fucking cunt,” comes the muffled justification from the face embedded in his neck. 

Derek lightly flexes his fingers and slowly removes his hand from the Prince’s neck, worried that he had overstepped some imaginary line or another. He does not manage to withdraw it very far before Stiles makes his will known, “Put it back, or I’ll elbow you again,” comes to muffle voice once more, his hands now freely roaming over Derek’s body cataloguing his injuries and condition. 

“How much gold did his father promise you for putting up with him,” Boyd prompts from his position leaning against a tree. 

“Rude,” Stiles interjects as her removes himself from his hunched over position, shooting Boyd a peeved look before turning his attention back to Derek. He fleets his eyes over every square centimeter of Derek’s face, taking in each change he has suffered over these past months. 

Boyd pushes off from the tree with a laugh, but his eyes betray the true worry he holds for his old friend. “We should be heading back to Maidenpool, you can bathe, shave, have a decent meal before we continue back towards the Capital.” 

“You do need a shave,” Stiles says with a weak smile. 

Derek raises an unimpressed brow, “Now who is being rude,” he replies in a dry voice, attempting rise up and balance upon his forearms. “Is it only the two of you,” he asks in a confused voice, looking around the empty forest. 

Boyd gives Derek a flat look in response, “Do you take me for a fool,” he asks in a monotone voice. 

Derek can’t help but chuckle, “Bannermen guarding the perimeter then,” he prompts. 

“Naturally,” Boyd supplies in response. “And I won’t hesitate to use them in order to exact my two debts form you,” he shoots back with a smirk. 

Derek pauses for a moment and gnaws on his bottom lip in worry, “How about three debts…” he asks quietly. 

Boyd raises a brow and takes a number of deliberate steps to close the distance between the two men and himself, “I’m not going to like this am I,” he says cautiously. 

“I was travelling with another escapee,” Derek begins, “I need you to find her and bring her back to the Capital… I owe her my life.”

Boyd raises both his brows in interest, but does not supply an answer; instead he motions with his hand for Derek to elaborate. 

“Erica Greyjoy; blonde, terrible temper, awful conversationalist, pain in my ass,” he says in an annoyed yet affectionate tone, “But I owe her my life nonetheless. She is the reason I was able to escape the Twins, without her I would likely be dead.” 

“You want me to risk my life for a Greyjoy,” Boyd replies in disbelief, “A Greyjoy…” 

“I’ll give you anything that is within my power to give,” Derek answers in haste, “She panicked when a Taragryen raiding party approached our position, she knocked me out and fled.” 

“Sounds like a winner,” Stiles mutters under his breath, earning him an amused snort from Boyd. 

“So she acted like a Greyjoy,” Boyd drawls. “How do I know she won’t try to kill me once I free her,” he asks sceptically. “How will she know I am who I say I am?”

Derek furrows his brows in contemplation before slowly removing the mud covered Stark pin from his chest and handing it over to Boyd. “Show her this,” he supplies, “This is something she has seen many times before.”

Boyd shifts his gaze to Stiles, asking for silent permission to abandon his position beside the Prince and submit to Derek’s request. “Go," Stiles says almost immediately. "She saved his life, the least we can do is return the favour.” 

Boyd shifts his gaze back to Derek, “How many men in the raiding part?”

Derek scrunches up his face in contemplation, his throbbing head doing little to aid his memory. “It was small, maybe 8 men,” he says with a small shrug. 

Boyd nods his head absently, “They will likely be heading for Harroway, and then onto Harrenhal—if they make it to Harrenhal before I am able to intercept them, I will not be able to fulfil this request,” he warns. 

“I know,” Derek says in a reluctant voice, “I know.” 

“Keep my personal guard,” Boyd directs towards Stiles, “The Prince requires them more than a skilled knight.” Stiles opens his mouth to argue but Boyd raises a hand in protest, “I have fought a lot worse then peasants playing soldiers, I’ll be fine.” 

Stiles gives a jerked nod of his head, worry still plain on his features. “We need to go,” he says to Derek in a small voice, rising from his position and extending a helping hand towards the injured man. 

When Derek rises he gives Boyd a strong embrace of thanks, “Be careful and thank you,” he says earnestly. 

“Don’t worry about me, I’m not nearly in as sorry condition as the two of you,” Boyd replies, motioning to the two men before him. “Now go, stop wasting time and get back before you idiots get yourselves into some new hell.” 

Never one for emotional goodbyes, Boyd gives a quick wave before striding away and whistling for his waiting horse, heading off to fulfill Derek’s request. 

Once he is out of sight Derek turns his attention back to the Prince, “Thank you,” he says quietly before taking Stiles' face in his hands and pressing a deep kiss upon his lips. After a moment he draws back and can’t help but smile at the warm eyes that are looking back at him. 

Stiles reaches out and takes one of Derek’s hands in his own, and motions for him to follow, leading them out of the forest towards the waiting horses. Derek is more than willing to oblige, sidling up next to the young Prince, a comforting heat next to him as they walk in silence. 

Silence is new; silence is strange. Perhaps it is all the time he spent with Erica, but Derek feels compelled to fill the void between them. In hindsight he could have chosen a better topic. “So, I heard some interesting stories about you,” he prompts, a smirk playing upon his face.

Stiles raises a questioning brow but does not interrupt Derek, something surprising within itself. 

“Well there was this maegi…”

### DRAGONSTONE

Scott had no intention of ever getting this involved in the war. He wanted to avoid his duty to the Crown, go home, and marry Allison. None of his plans ever involved being ushered from citadel to citadel, threatened by Kate Targaryen, being thrown into a black cell, or being blinded and swept away once more by the ever trying Kali Martell. Scott is without a doubt in his mind, completely fucking done with this war. 

Stiles has mentioned delivering him back home to the Eyrie, but when the bag was removed from his head, it was not the sight of home that greeted him; it was the ravaged town of Duskendale, and the scowling face of Stannis Baratheon. He was fortunate enough to not face torture, yet he was not foolish enough to disregard the threats that were made towards him. The elder Baratheon had informed it that he had no patience for imbeciles, nor would he tolerate liars or deserters. Scott knew that if he ever wanted to see Allison again, he would be forced into cooperating. He gave up any information he had pertaining to the layout of Dragonstone, be it passages, strongholds or weak points of defense—Scott divulged whatever was asked of him. 

Scott hadn’t set foot on Dragonstone since the fateful day that preluded the Targaryen Rebellion. The sight that greets him upon his arrival turns his stomach, and has him heaving over the dark stones below his feet. The waves crashed hard against the rocky shores of Dragonstone, carrying with them the shattered and burning remains of a destroyed fleet. Bodies of soldiers littered the path to the citadel, their blood being washed away by the pounding rain, as it continues to strike upon the ground in droves. The Targaryen men had not been blessed with enough time to prepare, for their enemy had arrived in a horde of ships, using the sheets of rain as a cover in the darkness of the storm.

Stannis Baratheon had entrenched his men along the costal wall, just as his older brother, the King, ordered him to. Yet, when the raven arrived carrying the orders to abandon the defensive manoeuvre and instead strike and take the Targaryen stronghold, he did not hesitate to follow with swift action. John Baratheon has never been a militant leader; he has never been one to act recklessly. 

Breaching Dragonstone would have been a daunting task, if Stannis hadn’t being in possession of Scott Arryn; or as the men have recently begun calling him—their pet rat. Because of this distinct advantage, Stannis was able to navigate his men through the weakest points within the fortress, and seize the Targaryen stronghold. Yet despite all efforts to remain out of the war, here Scott finds himself being ushered along with the Baratheon bannermen, cutting their way through the remaining dismal defenses on their march towards the Keep, and undoubtedly Alexander Targaryen.

Scott is thankful of his current state; his hazy vision and stumbling feet allowing him to bypass most of the surrounding death and destruction, as the Baratheon men shove him along. When the doors to the keep swing open, the sight that greets him and Baratheon men is that Alexander Targaryen sitting alone in the Lord’s chair, though despite his hard expression and upturned jaw, he looks as weak and frail as ever. He refuses to cower in the face of defeat and his cold gaze remains fixed upon the conquering Lord Stannis Baratheon, who is purposely striding towards him, armed men in tow. 

Scott had once heard from Stiles that his uncle never smiles, and up until this moment he would have believed those words to be true. Before him, stalking back in forth in front of the lone Targaryen, is a smiling, blood soaked Stannis; a sight that makes Scott question if he will be surviving to the morning light—considering he has since outlived his usefulness. 

“Alexander Targaryen, it has been far too long,” Stannis says coolly. Scott can practically feel the temperature drop in the room. 

Alexander does not dignify the taunt with a response; instead he merely clenches his jaw and curls his fingers in anger. Scott may have not laid eyes upon the man for months, but even he can tell that those fingers have grown bonier, and his robes looser. If the man does not die tonight, it will not be long before the God of Death comes without a summons from a Baratheon horn. 

“Not feeling particularly hospitable at the moment,” Stannis remarks. Scott wishes for nothing more than to be swallowed up into the floor. He knows where this is going, and he knows Allison will never forgive him for the role he was forced to play in the proceedings. 

Scott does his best to curl into himself, an effort to make his presence go unnoticed within the keep. He wants history to forget he was ever here; he wants to make sure that his honour remains untainted on this night. Unfortunately for him, that is completely unavoidable. 

Stannis releases an annoyed huff, obviously growing impatient with Alexander’s silence. “Where is Lord Gerard,” he questions flatly, “It isn’t like him to leave a fool in charge during a time of war.” 

The Baratheon’s question is once again greeted only by silence. Despite Scott’s effort to keep his eyes trained on the stones below him, he can practically sense all eyes in the chamber shift towards his form. 

Scott can hear footsteps striding towards him; he closes his eyes tightly in response, waiting for the inevitable. “Rat, where is Gerard Targaryen,” the approaching voice booms. 

Scott refuses to raise his eyes from the stone, betrayal is easier when don’t have to witness the outcome of your actions. “Harrenhal,” he answers almost inaudibly. 

Scott can hear an angry hiss escape from Alexander, but he continues to screw his eyes shut in the only from of rebellion he can truly muster. He doesn’t want any of this coming back to him, he doesn’t even want to retain a single memory of this moment in time. After a number of shaky breaths he can hear the heels of the boots strike down upon the stone floor, as their wearer slowly begins to wander back towards the lone Targaryen. 

“The Riverlands is an odd place for the Lord of the Crownlands,” Stannis states in an even tone, “Wouldn’t you agree rat?”

“Yes my Lord,” Scott replies immediately, he has learned the hard way that punctuality is appreciated when responding to inquiries. 

“And why exactly is the Lord of the Crownlands, all alone at Harrenhal,” the elder Baratheon questions. 

Scott sucks in a deep lungful of air before answering, “I do not know my lord…. I… I was abducted from the stables before his arrival,” Scott finishes lamely. 

Stannis clicks his tongue in annoyance, “Shame, I was told that you supposed to be of use to me—No matter, one Targaryen is as good as another,” he starts, turning his attention back to Alexander. “In the name of John of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Stannis of the House Baratheon, Warden of the Stormlands and Commander of the Baratheon army, I denounce and attaint the House Targaryen, and strip all members of theirs ranks and titles, of all lands and incomes and holdings. Any who do not repent for the sins of their House against the Crown and willingly bend the knee, I do sentence him or her to death. May the gods take pity on their souls,” Stannis proclaims. 

Scott’s eyes fly open in shock, and his gaze raises up to take in the scene before him. Alexander Targaryen jolts from his seat, teeth bared in anger. “By what right do you dare stand here and threaten my family. Your brother has always been too blinded by his honour to exact vengeance through spilled blood,” he spits out venomously. 

Stannis does not answer; instead he motions for Ser Davos to step forward. Without even a blink of his eye the man does as instructed, extending out his hand towards the ireful dragon in front of him; within that hand is a simple scroll, the broken seal is that of King’s. Alexander snatches the offending piece of parchment and quickly unravels it, taking in the King’s proclamation. 

“You are right Alexander, my brother has never been a vicious man. However, that is why you will recall that I have now commanded an army against your family in two rebellions. When the Baratheons stand to exact vengeance through blood, you will always find my forces and I standing here before you,” Stannis says coolly. 

Alexander’s face has blanched at the words written on the parchment before him; Scott has no doubt that the man is slowly coming to terms with his imminent death. Scott wants to offer some form of comfort, but there is nothing he can do. The House of Targaryen is no more; their Dynasty is a dead as the dragons they once rode to Westeros upon hundreds of years ago. 

The Crownlands have all but been absorbed into the borders of the Stormlands, and their wealth will no doubt be distributed out amongst the people, in the form of war reparations. Scott could not care less about the fact Allison is no longer a lady by title, but what worries him is that he doubts she will ever repent for her actions in this war; he doubts he will ever be able to marry the girl he fell in love with. Gods be damned if he going is to let them take Allison away from him, not after everything he has endured for her. 

Scott hastily tries to scramble to his feet, only to be shoved back down by the soldiers surrounding him. “You can’t do this,” he shouts in a panic, “You can’t kill Allison!” 

Stannis Baratheon pays no attention to his pleas for mercy, and is all but oblivious to the panicking boy, whom is thrashing about behind him. Instead he draws his sword and motions for two soldiers to seize the Targaryen before him; having them restrain the man and shove him down to knees. 

“NO PLEASE—,” Scott screams in panic, his voice cracking, “THEY MUST STAND TRIAL,” he cries out in anguish. He receives a harsh blow from an armoured hand for his efforts; blood dripping from his split lip onto the stones below him. 

“Do you repent for your sins; do you swear to bend the knee before the true King of Westeros,” Stannis questions evenly, coming to stand parallel to the kneeling man. 

Scott can barely see the men before him, his vision clouded by the desperate tears falling from his eyes. He continues to plead for mercy upon the Targaryens but no interest is paid to him as his words slowly turn into a panicked jumble, before breaking off into body wracking sobs. 

“Do you repent,” Stannis repeats, firming his grip upon the hilt of his sword. 

“A dragon will never kneel before a stag,” Alexander answers firmly. 

Within the blink of an eye there is the flash of sword being raised, and the swoop of air as it descends. The decapitated body of Alexander Targaryen is dropped to the ground, as the former lord’s head rolls across the stone floor, coming to a stop at the bent knees of Lord Scott Arryn; empty eyes staring back into his own.


	18. I see their blonde hair and their smug, satisfied faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Cerenna Lannister = January Jones (if you are looking to create the Lannister family trifecta, a blonde Kate Beckinsale is the face for Claudia.)  
> II. Sorry this took a bit longer than 2 weeks, I had hoped for this to be a short chapter but it decided to be a bitch instead.  
> III. Hooray for new tags added, we aren't quite at the point of them being needed, but they are there for a reason.

### CASTERLY ROCK

The Rock was every bit as formidable as Peter remembered, a hulking castle carved directly into the face of a mountain, a daunting sight to say the least. The entirety of it was thrice the size of the Wall, and was crowned with numerous towers and turrets. It was a sight he had not seen in nearly seventeen years, but it was a welcomed one all the same. 

He had left his forces in Lannisport as an act of good faith, and rides towards the greats gates with only his personal guard at his side. Peter does not doubt the loyalty of the Lannisters, nor does he hold a fear for his life, but he has no doubt that he will not leave these walls unscathed. His relationship with the Lannisters is a tricky one, one that leaves him on edge and reluctant to put down his guard. To the untrained eye he appears utterly calm, almost in a brash manner. Despite this outward appearance, Peter is anything but relaxed. 

His posture gives off an aura of indifference, as he remains slouched forward in his saddle, resting his crossed arms upon the pommel. Anyone who knows Peter can easily pick out his nervous habit; the rhythmically tapping fingers that seem to grow more restless with each passing minute. 

His eyes may be lazily filtering through his surroundings, but he is systematically searching for the sign of one individual; perpetually unable to find the golden curtain of hair he seeks. It would be better for everyone in the vicinity if he found her, before she found him, but then again luck has been far and few in between for him lately, and he isn’t about to bank on it now. 

Peter has the utmost faith in her spies, and is certain she has known about his army’s movements for days; he refuses to believe she is not watching his approach at this very moment. As the horses approach the bridge leading them towards the great Rock, the gates at the far end swing open ominously, confirming his suspicions. 

It doesn’t matter if you call them friend or ally, it is always a feeling of great unease when one rides into the halls and caverns beneath Casterly Rock. The monstrosity of a stronghold is nearly two leagues wide from east to west and is riddled with numerous hidden tunnels and mines throughout— not to mention the sheer scale of its inhabitable regions. All in all, there were far too many places for one to die, yet never be found; a fact that left any sane individual on their toes. 

Peter has no doubt that a number of the Lannister’s annoyances have met their end within these walls; and he is not prepared to find out just how accurate his beliefs are. He can feel a minor jump in his heart when their party approaches the Lion’s Mouth—the huge natural cavern allowing entrance into the Rock—sitting at two hundred feet from floor to ceiling. 

He can hear the men in his guard whispering amongst themselves, no doubt exhibiting the same fear and wonder he had shown many years ago. This castle has never been taken by storm of siege, and the large unscathed oak gates that greet them are as good a testament as any. 

Without an utterance the iron portcullis begins to rise, and the hulking gates swing open upon their approach, showcasing the grand courtyard to the nearing northerners, and ultimately ushering them into the inner sanctum of House Lannister. 

Their ride has been a quiet one, passing completely uninhibited by those around them, and continues to be so until they rein to a halt within the great stone walls, and the gates close ominously behind them with a loud groan. A number of Lannister soldiers step forward from the positions by the walls of the courtyard and stride over towards the northerners, grasping the reins of their horses. 

Peter can’t help but look down at the young soldier in amusement, “Can I help you,” he asks, motioning towards the boy’s hand on Ultio’s reins. 

“We have been instructed to insure you and your guard remain here until the Lady of Casterly Rock arrives,” the boy answers with a small tremor in his voice. 

If Peter was a nicer man he would not take pleasure in tormenting the boy, however he is willing to admit his own shortcomings. With a sharp grin Peter swings his right leg out of the stirrup and over Ultio’s neck, sliding out of the saddle in one quick movement. 

“I am awfully tired after such a long ride,” he drawls, stretching dramatically for added effect. “Surely a lowly northern such as myself is of no interest to someone of such standing,” he adds in a mocking tone. 

“Orders are orders I am afraid. My apologies, Ser,” the boy adds in a stronger voice.

“I am no knight,” Peter exclaims with a dramatic sigh, “Such an honour has never been bestowed upon an uncivilized northerner such as myself,” he states in a self-deprecating tone. 

The poor boy exchanges quick glances with his fellow men but receives only shrugs in response. “Apologies for my mistake, m’Lord,” the boy corrects quickly. Peter can’t help but laugh. 

“Lord,” he parrots in a mocking voice, “No lords here,” he says with a smirk, slowly sauntering his way towards an exit, as nonchalantly as he can. He makes a good show of taking in the sights surrounding him, emitting little gasps and sounds of awe as he goes. 

“Are you not Lord Peter Stark,” another soldier asks, clearly confused by the proceedings, motioning to the burns marring the right half of his face. 

“Afraid not,” Peter says with a grimace, inching ever closer to a quick escape. “If I see him, I will be to sure to let him know that the lot of you are looking for him,” he adds with a sharp smile. 

His hand is tracing the stone along the walls, mere inches from an archway that would produce an escape route, when the familiar sounds of clicking heels fills his ears. Peter freezes instantly, dropping his head and releasing a defeated sigh. 

“Peter Stark, you retched man,” comes the growling voice of an enraged woman. Peter had been hoping to meet her on his own terms, perhaps once negotiations had cessed and there was somewhere private where the yelling would be muffled. 

He can hear her descend from the top wall, the sound of her heels ringing off of the stone surrounding them, nearing ever closer. Peter screws his eyes shut and takes a deep breath before opening them, slowly turning around with his hands raised in a complacent gesture. 

“Cerenna…” he begins, though no other words escape his mouth before a harsh slap is struck across his face; sharp nails leading the motion and cutting open his cheek. Just as quick as his face is struck and jerked to the right, there is a hand coming up to grasp his chin and jerk it back to center. 

Before him is Cerenna Lannister in all her glory. Sharp eyes bore into the scars on his face, cataloguing the change in his appearance since their last meeting. Her golden locks are longer than he remembered, but perhaps it is the manner of which she wears it in her later years. When they had met it was a mess of complicated braids, today it is a flowing golden mane, as wild any true lion’s. The years had been much kinder to her, her fair skin and slender figure remaining in tact. 

“What did they do to you,” she hisses out between clenched teeth, her fingers tightening to a bruising hold. “You almost burned to death in Targaryen wildfire and you couldn’t so much as send me a bloody raven.” 

“Your brother is Hand of the King, I imagined he would have let that one slip,” Peter says softly. 

“I didn’t want to hear it from him, I wanted to hear it from my husband,” she snarls back, every bit the woman he remembers. 

“Cerenna,” he repeats softly, slowly raising one of his hands to cover her own, “I came back to you, just as I promised I would.” He slowly loosens her hold and lowers their hands from his face, intertwining their fingers as they fall. 

Years ago he would have rode into the courtyard alone, and leaped from the back of Ultio and into her waiting arms. Years ago they were married and happy, years ago they were happily in love; he doesn’t know what they are anymore. He has no doubt over his own love for her, but for the sake of decorum they can no longer appear as such. She is in a loveless marriage with her cousin, and is the Lady of Casterly Rock; he is but the Mad Wolf of House Stark. 

At his sudden silence, her brow furrows in worry and her eyes flicker down to their joined hands, where his fingers have began to shake in anxiety. Despite their years apart realisation quickly dawns upon her face, and it is Cerenna who crosses the unknown lands between them. She releases her hold upon his hand and throws herself forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and dragging him into a tight embrace. 

It takes only a split second for Peter to throw aside his hesitation and wrap her in his arms, leaving not an inch of room between them for a moment longer. He presses his face into her hair, closing his eyes tight and draws one long breath, inhaling the scent of the women he loves. 

For Peter, time stops and is kind enough to let them hang in its balance undisturbed. When he finally raises his head and surveys the courtyard, he finds the horses, as well as his men, have been relocated, leaving only the Lannister men behind. 

“I shouldn’t have taken so long,” Peter says softly, before pressing a chaste kiss to the lips of the woman he once called his wife. 

Cerenna says nothing, but her cocked brow is answer enough. “I’ve been busy,” he adds quickly, noting the other brow beginning to ascend. 

“And I haven’t,” she shoots back in a sharp tone, “Let’s just pretend I haven’t been ruling over Casterly Rock in my brother’s absence. Let’s just pretend that I haven’t been responsible for raising our son for the past fourteen years.” 

Peter winces at her words, but does not object to her harsh tone. “You know that was not my choice. You know I care for our son just as much as you,” he reasons. 

Cerenna scoffs but eventually the anger recedes from her features. “We have a lot to discuss,” she says in forced polite tone, ever the politician. 

Peter levels her with a knowing look, “All these years and you still think I can’t see right through you,” he says with a sigh, “I came to you as quickly as I could, perhaps I should not come at all if this is welcome I am going to receive.” 

Peter watches her work her jaw for a moment before she releases a shuttering sigh and drops her rigid posture. He tentatively reaches his hands forward towards her face, smoothing out the lines of anger and worry. “It would be foolish to think we are the same people we once were, but there is no reason that we cannot be civil towards one another,” he implores. 

She releases a tired sigh and nods her head in agreement, “Jackson will be surprised to see you. It has been what five years since that tournament you barely won,” she asks with a small smirk playing across her lips. 

Peter can’t help but laugh, “You never pass up the opportunity to deliver a blow do you,” he asks with a shake of his head. “You never forget a slight, real or imagined.” 

“This one is real,” she states in an even tone. “However, I am willing to set aside our issues for the moment, since there are greater ones at hand.” Peter cocks a brow in interest, forcing Cerenna to deliver a roll of her eyes in response, “The good of the realm,” she responds in a deep mocking voice. 

A large smile splits Peter’s face, “Such love you hold for your poor brother. It seems to have dwindled even more than I remember.”

“I’m supposedly already engaged in an incestuous relationship with my cousin, would you prefer if I began one with my brother instead,” she asks in a flat voice. 

Peter can’t help but let out an amused snort in response, “No, that would simply not do my dear,” he says before pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Though as much as I prefer the company of the Lannister before me, your brother and I need to discuss certain matters.” 

Cerenna narrows her eyes at Peter before motioning for him to follow her. “I’d be happy to take you to him, but do stay close, it would be unfortunate for you get lost within these halls,” she replies in a sickly sweet tone. 

Peter steps into stride alongside her, allowing her to expertly navigate the vast winding tunnels. “You seem to forget what happened the first time I visited your charming pile of rock. I had tried to find my way back to harbour, and instead wound up in one of the mines.” 

Cerenna gives a derisive snort, “Yes I am sure it was by complete accident that you happened to find your way into one of our gold mines. You’ve never possessed enough cunning to find your way into them on purpose,” she says, flashing Peter an innocent smile. 

“Gods I’ve missed you,” Peter groans out. “You would not believe how dull life is when one is surrounded by simple minds, and unambitious plans.” 

“I’m married to Davyd,” she replies in a dry tone, “I can believe just fine,” she states coolly before grabbing Peter’s arm and yanking him down a narrow corridor. 

“And how is darling Davyd,” Peter asks with a huff. 

“Indifferent to us, and concerned with himself as always,” she replies in an annoyed tone, whilst digging her nails into Peter’s arm before releasing him. 

Peter shoots her a confused look, “Us? What us,” he asks. 

Cerenna stops dead and wheels on her heel to face Peter; she quickly advances on him and slams him back into a wall. Peter knows this is meant to be an intimidation tactic so he wisely keeps the amused smirk from his face, though barely. 

“Us, as in myself and our son,” she responds with a snarl, before once again spinning on her heel and striding off at a quicker pace.

Peter quickly shoves off of the wall and makes to follow her, though he is wary of forcing another outburst. “Jackson has been under his care for nearly fourteen years, exactly how indifferent can he be to the lad at this point,” he asks sceptically. 

Cerenna keeps her gaze fixed forward, refusing to meet Peter’s questioning eyes. “I raised our son on my own. Davyd has never been, nor do I suspect he ever will be, much aid. He does not consider Jackson to be remotely his responsibility, even though they share blood,” she answers in a firm voice. 

“What of your brother,” Peter asks softly. 

“His duties as Hand require him to spend all his time in the capital, he has had very little influence on Jackson… at least not until this war started and he was able to shove him out of my arms and into the slaughter,” she responds with a condemning tone. 

Peter slowly reaches out one of his hands and intertwines their fingers, offering up a gesture of support. He knows that he has not been there to raise his own son, but he will be damned if anyone will ever think he has all but abandon him. He played the doting happy father for two years of his son’s life, before the Targaryens ripped that away from him. If he has to run his sword through all of them himself, in order to see his family restored, then so be it. 

“He has done well on the field of battle, has he not,” Peter asks in an attempt to steer the conversation into safer waters. There had been rumours of course, as there always are, but he has yet to hear anything solid. Some said that lightning had struck down the Greyjoy ships and burned them before the battle could begin. Others say they were torn to pieces upon the rocky shores. Peter’s favourite of course, were the tales that spoke of Jackson driving his sword straight through Quenton Greyjoy. 

At his prompting a proud smile graces Cerenna’s face, and for the first time in years, Peter sees honest happiness in her expression. “He torched the entire fleet by covering ten of his crippled ships in pitch and sailing them towards the anchored Greyjoy armada. When the flames had died down, he boarded the Great Kraken himself and put a sword straight through that miserable old lecher’s face,” she says with an amused smirk.

Peter is absolutely glowing at her words, barely able to contain his excitement and resist the urge to jump and punch a fist into the air. He knows that to a certain degree it is bad form, but frankly he can’t wait to return to Winterfell and rub this one in his brother’s face. Derek got outsmarted by an Arryn, captured and is wandering who knows where doing who knows what; Jackson managed to lead a unit to victory, slice a few people open, and make it back home in time for a celebratory casket of wine. Clearly Peter is the better father, the past fourteen years be damned, he is obviously the superior Stark in this scenario; something he has been adamant about for years. 

There is a slight spring in Peter’s step as they continue on their way, a strut that does not go unnoticed by those whom they pass; leaving a trail of smiling faces and laughter as they proceed through the halls. Knowing that Jackson has managed to prosper, despite any hardships he has endured, is something that lifts an immeasurable weight from Peter’s shoulders. 

Every father worries about his children. He worries if they will survive past a young age; he worries if they will grow to accomplish their goals; he worries if they will live on to produce a family of their own. Peter is more than successful at this point, and if that results in his step carrying a certain swagger, then so be it. 

“What of Jackson’s future,” he asks in a light tone, hoping to not appear too giddy about his son’s accomplishments thus far. 

Any attempt at this feint fails, as Cerenna raises a brow in amusement. “We are looking at a good match for him. Both Parris and I agree that Dorne needs to remain within the fold, and within our reach. Thus, we have allowed Jackson to continue his friendship with Doran Martell’s son.” 

Peter rolls his eyes in exasperation, “Ah yes of course,” he exclaims dramatically, “How stupid of me. Of course you would only allow him to be friends with someone if it brought promises of gory for the realms.” 

“Don’t be dramatic,” she hisses back in annoyance. 

“Don’t be selfish,” Peter chastises almost immediately. “Does he even like the Martell boy,” he asks in a sceptical tone, “Are they close? Is he pushing for the match? Is Arianne even going to let the poor lad leave Dorne?”

“None of that is my problem,” Cerenna adds airily. “My duty as a Lannister is to ensure he carries on our family name with honour and dignity. The Martell boy is a good match. He is well liked by everyone he meets, and is quite the source of knowledge,” she adds in a dry tone. 

“You don’t like him,” Peter adds in an amused tone, a smirk playing across his lips. “What could possibly be wrong with Dorne’s golden son, in order for you to dislike him? Maybe it isn’t the Martell boy at all, maybe you had a different match in mind for Jackson—the Tyrell girl perhaps,” he states accusingly. 

Cerenna curls her lip in disgust, “Lydia Tyrell was an option, one that we were forced to overlook because of the Prince’s infatuation with her,” she adds with a roll of her eyes. 

“So you did prefer the Tyrell girl,” Peters replies with a grin. “Such a shame this war hadn’t been postponed a month of two,” he mutters with a shake of his head. 

Cerenna is quiet for a few moments, Peter barely retaining a laugh at the war waging across her features. He can tell she wants to ask, but he knows her pride is burning at the realization he is privy to information she does not know. 

“What do you mean a month or two,” she finally asks in a careful voice. 

“Oh you know,” Peter says with a smirk firmly in place, “The whole overly dramatic, blossoming love story between my nephew Derek and the Prince. Quite aggravating those two; pawing at each other in secluded corners, bickering nonstop, risking life and limb yet refusing to admit one’s feelings—it really is quite absurd the whole thing.” 

“The Prince is no longer interest in the Tyrell girl,” she asks evenly, the rising anger clear in her tone. “He is pursuing your nephew…” 

Peter absently nods his head in agreement, “Correct,” he drawls out. “If those two had sorted out their issues before this whole war had started, then you would have your match and House Tyrell could go the way of the House Reyne all those years ago.” 

Cerenna barely conceals a sneer, “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she answers airily. 

Peter gives a look of thinly veiled scepticism, “Darling, anger makes your true motivations very clear. When you are composed, you are cunning and clever as ever. But when you grow angry, you grow stupid. If Jackson married the Tyrell girl, you would have control of their dynasty and their fortune.” 

Cerenna works he jaw in annoyance, but she nods her head and concedes Peter’s point. “The Tyrell girl would have been a better match in terms of our own growth. However, the Martell boy is better for the realms,” she says evenly. 

“You mean one is better for your own personal gain, and one is better suited for your brother’s political gain,” Peter adds cheekily. 

Cerenna scoffs but does not press the point, her silence saying enough as it is. She spends a moment mulling over her words, and removes the topic of conversation from herself before quickly shining it back upon Peter. “I thought you were in discussions to marry the Tyrell girl,” she says coolly, a sneer clear on her face. 

Peter can’t contain the bark of laughter that escapes at her words. “Gods never,” he says with a choked off laugh, waving his hands in dismissal. “Her mother did try to sell me on the girl, but I swear it by all the Gods, there was never a chance I would ever saddle myself with that creature for the rest of my life. I am sure she has her uses... but marry her and you’ll be jumping at the opportunity for an early death.” 

His words appear to soothe what animosity Cerenna was holding for the rumours, and a faint smile forming upon her lips. “I assumed as much,” she says casually. Peter knows better, but he is willing to let this one pass his judgement. Not a day has passed where he does not harbour ill feelings towards Davyd, why should he judge Cerenna for any she holds towards those seeking his hand. 

“Does Jackson mind that their union will not come to pass,” he asks worriedly, not having given a second thought to his own son’s reaction. 

Cerenna gives a half-hearted shrug, “In the beginning he seemed less than enthused about the course of events. You will have to ask him yourself. After all isn’t the duty of one’s father to sit their child down and tell them who they shall be marrying and why they shall be pleased about it,” she replies with a mocking smile. 

Peter grimaces at her words, “I distinctly remember you refusing a union with a Baratheon and a Martell,” he drawls. “Something along the lines of you telling your father you would rather die frozen in the North with the man you love, than marry either of them.” 

“That is what I told you. In actuality I told my father that we needed stronger ties with the North as it is not only the largest realm, but the one most likely to secure independent governance,” she states in detached voice. 

“Lies!” Peter exclaims in a dramatic voice. “You honestly expect me to believe that I was a business transaction?” 

Cerenna turns up her nose in disregard for his protests, but a smile is beginning to crack her stony façade, giving way to the truth she is trying to cover. 

“I know you are lying,” Peter presses with a laugh, “You are trying so hard not to smile, and failing miserably.” 

Cerenna presses her lips together tightly but her dimples easily give away the smile she is desperately trying to conceal, repeatedly turning herself away from Peter as to not break out laughing at his ridiculous grinning face. 

“Just admit it,” he practically whines, coming up to embrace her from behind, securing her in place with his arms. “Just admit the fact you loved me so much, you couldn’t resist pissing off your father, and running away to the North with me,” he whispers in her ear with a grin. 

“Love,” she replies with a whisper, “Not loved… love.” 

“Love it is,” he answers softly, dropping his head to rest at the juncture of her neck. It has almost been a year since that fateful day his family departed Winterfell for Dragonstone, and in all that time, he cannot begin to think of a moment as wonderful as this. It has been years since he was able to embrace his should be wife without fear of scandal and consequences. It is a moment Peter wishes to make last a long as possible. 

That is of course why they are interrupted quite swiftly by a mocking voice. “Look at the two of you, are you adults or hormone riddled children,” it supplies. 

Cerenna releases an annoyed breath but refuses to acknowledge the man. Peter would rather follow her lead, but unfortunately he rode here on business and that is what he must attend to. Reluctantly he raises his head and pulls back from the embrace, turning to meet the amused gazed of Parris Lannister. 

“My apologies, High Septon, we did mean to offend your holy eyes with our impurities,” Peter replies in a faux serious voice, whilst giving an exaggerated swooping bow. 

“As amusing as always,” Parris drawls in an annoyed tone, “You are funnier than I remember—first person to call me a Septon,” he says with an unimpressed expression set upon face. 

Peter saunters his way towards the Lannister war council chamber where the man awaits, though for lack of better judgement he does not quell his joking. “Well you are not married, thus you must be as pure and untouched as the High Septon himself,” he remarks with a grin. 

Peter can hear Cerenna chuckling behind him, which only gives him more reason to keep pressing, enjoying the perturbed look on her brother’s face far too much. 

“That’s enough Peter,” Parris warns, though there is no heat in his words. 

“Oh,” Peter exclaims with a wide grin, “Have you finally thrown away your honour? Tell me, how easy is it to sneak whores into the Tower of the Hand,” he presses unashamedly. 

Parris releases an angry huff and furiously scrubs his hands over his face, “Just shut up and get in the council chamber,” he barks before turning on heel and marching back into the room. 

“Thank you,” Cerenna says in hushed voice, rising up on her toes to lightly kiss Peter on his cheek. She grabs Peter’s hand and pulls him after her, and into the council chamber. 

The sight that greets Peter is utter chaos. The table it littered with maps and books, some torn, others covered in stains from food and drink. A handful of them seem to pertain to the Riverlands, others to the Reach—something that will undoubtedly put a spear through Peter’s plans. 

What is more curious though, is the only other individual in the room; his son. Jackson is seated at the far end of the table, his arms crossed upon the table, with his chin resting upon them. His face carries a bored expression as he lazily flips through an old tome. 

“What if we just let them burn the Reach to the ground, how badly could that turn out,” Jackson mumbles in a tired voice. 

“Somewhere between catastrophic and utter collapse of the economy,” Peter replies with an amused snort. 

At the sound of a foreign voice Jackson shoots up into a rigid position, staring back at Peter with wide eyes.

Peter slowly walks his way towards the table, pulling out a chair for Cerenna before seating himself next to her and turning to address Jackson’s outburst. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t let the Targaryens burn the Reach to the ground, but I am saying it is an awful idea.” 

“I wasn’t serious,” Jackson replies with a sneer. 

“Praise the Gods,” Peter exclaims, throwing his hands up into the air. “If you were being serious I’d have to go throw Davyd off of a tower for raising you a fool,” he replies with a wide grin. 

Jackson furrows his brow in contemplation but says nothing, though a pout stays firmly placed upon his face. 

“Play nice children,” Cerenna chastises in a dry voice, before grabbing a goblet of wine. “We are all here for the same reason, let’s try to actually accomplish it before the Reach burns with or without our consent.” 

Parris’ brows are making a valiant effort to climb into his hairline, obviously surprised by sister’s rare display of peacekeeping. “How was your ride,” he directs towards Peter, “I hope the people of the Westerlands have been accommodating during your time here.”

“Superior to the Riverlands,” Peter adds with a forced smile, “The Ironborn are scattered between both factions, the Tullys are hiding behind their walls, and the Targaryen men pop out of every fucking hole in the ground when you least expect it.” 

Now it is Parris’ turn to furrow his brow in concern, leaning over the table towards Peter. “Elaborate,” he orders. 

Peter sighs, “In regards to the Riverlands, a third of the Targaryen forces remain at Harrenhal,” he adds, adjusting the markers on the map before them, “The remaining numbers are currently garrisoned around Riverrun, alongside the Tully bannermen.” 

Parris slowly let’s his eyes fall shut and releases a longsuffering sigh. “That would near sixty thousand men,” he says evenly. 

“Fifty I would suspect,” Peter replies, as he reaches forward to pour himself a goblet of wine. “The Freys have been dealt with, thus their numbers are not a problem.” 

Parris cocks a brow but says nothing. 

“I gave the Boltons some free rein in terms of the Twins,” Peter says unapologetically. “At the time we were under the impression that Derek was within their clutches and as you know family is important.” He receives a nod of acquiesce from Parris before continuing. “Recovering Derek was the top priority, however once the Boltons took the Twins, we discovered he had already escaped. They were allowed to carve up anyone who may hold some key to his whereabouts, which ultimately they deemed to be anyone left alive within their arms’ reach,” he finishes lamely. 

“You have the kind of power,” Jacksons asks slowly, “You have command over the northern armies?” 

Peter turns his attention back the boy, “Yes, I do. My brother may be Warden of the North, but when push comes to shove, I am the one who spills the blood. Brandon prefers to rule, I prefer to kill people. 

“And he lets you,” Jackson continues with a quizzical expression. 

“Yes,” Peter replies with a grin, “He is more than content to appointment me as head of our forces, so long as he remains in the North and in control of his realm and his people. Just because everyone is fighting elsewhere, does not mean there is nothing to do back home.” 

Jackson hums in contemplation but says no more, dropping his weight back down upon the table into a comfortable position. 

“How many men does Christophe have in the South,” Peter asks, returning his attention to Parris Lannister. 

“None of his own forces it seems, just the Tyrell bannermen—more so what remains of them,” he supplies. 

Now it is Peter’s turn to appear confused, “He didn’t bring any of his own men,” he questions disbelievingly, “No wonder the Riverlands is overrun with the bastards,” he muses. 

“How many Houses have pledged allegiance to the Florents,” Cerenna poses, after she drains yet another goblet of wine. 

“Not enough,” Parris supplies. “We need to relocate our forces South and remove the Targaryen influence from the northern parts of the Reach,” he mutters absently. “However, if there truly are that many men at Riverrun, we need to do something about them, before they turn their attention West and bring the fight to our own lands.” 

“And Harrenhal,” Jackson interjects.

“The Baratheon men from the Stormlands should have them under control,” Peter supplies, “Stannis may be a miserable shit, but he knows what he is doing.” 

Jackson absently taps his fingers repeatedly upon the table, “What of the Vale… and Dorne,” he supplies almost inaudibly. 

Parris gives a shake of his head in response, “Rafael Arryn refuses to send aid until he receives his son...” 

“Which he won’t,” Peter interjects

“…However, he does swear to not take up arms against the Crown in the meantime...”

“Because the Vale would be placed under embargo,” Peter finishes. 

Parris snorts but raises his glass in support of Peter’s words. “All true,” he says with a short laugh. “Doran and his son are in the capital, whilst I am otherwise indisposed,” he supplies, motioning to the mess on the table in front of them. 

“Danny is in the capital,” Jackson asks eagerly, failing to hide his interest. 

Cerenna and Peter exchange side eyes, small smiles sitting upon their amused faces. Jackson has all but answered his previous questions; apparently the boy is pleased with the Martell match. 

“Yes, he is,” Parris, responds in a curt tone, shooting Jackson an annoyed expression. “The Martells are of no concern, they are firmly aligned with the Crown but are disinterested in fighting a war. Their tactics are unique to their lands, they don’t fight in large numbers, nor do they engage in siege warfare.” 

Peter runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “So we are back where we started. We need to cut Christophe off from the Targaryen forces, whilst simultaneously throwing enough men at Riverrun to successfully sack it. 

“How many do you have,” Parris inquires. 

Peter curls his lip, “Somewhere near thirty thousand give or take. It is hard to keep track of the number when some die, and I seem to pick up stragglers as I go.”

Parris stares intently at the map on the table, reluctant to move any of the Lannister markers situated within the Westerlands borders. “If I gave you thirty, and sent the remainder of my men South, would you be able to take Riverrun,” he asks evenly. 

Peter grinds his teeth together and slouches forward in exasperation. “Maybe… I don’t know,” he says with a shake of his head. “I should in theory be able to take Riverrun but I will need commanders not just soldiers. My men are trained to my orders and signals, yours are not.” 

“I can do that,” Parris replies, moving a number of the Lannister markers east across the map. “However, I need to ensure the South does not turn into a slaughter. The Tyrell men are well equipped, well fed, and well trained—not to mention they are under the guidance of a capable commander in the form of Christophe Targaryen.” 

“How do you lock yourself away with the nonsense all day, my head is aching,” Cerenna groans. 

“As Hand, my attentions have been focused on more trivial matters, like drunken horse races down the street of sisters,” Parris mumbles, scrubbing his hands over his tired eyes. 

“Still makes my head throb,” Cerenna mutters. 

“Perhaps less wine,” Peter suggests in a snarky tone, earning him a kick to the ankle. 

“Just pick someone with half a brain and let them deal with the South. The Florents are gaining numbers, it shouldn’t take too much to tip them in their favour,” Cerenna continues, before taking a deliberate sip from her goblet, all whilst directing a challenging glare at Peter. 

“What If I went south,” Jackson says slowly in response, “I know my way around the Reach, it should be no problem,” he continues. 

Parris’s face is one of confliction, as he seems to mull over an appropriate response. “It is an option,” he finally responds. 

“No,” Cerenna says plainly, “I’d prefer if you went east with your father. It would do you good to learn under him. The Starks seem to have a way of inspiring unwavering loyalty. One can only hope it is a learned skill.” 

Jackson tries for indifference and gives a half-hearted shrug, “So long as I am allowed to go somewhere,” he mutters. “I’m not going to be stuck here, whilst everyone else is off fighting on the front lines. I’ll look like a coward,” he adds lamely. 

Peter scoffs, “You aren’t a coward and no one is leaving you behind. We just need to learn your strengths and where to use them,” he supplies encouragingly. 

Everyone shifts his or her eyes to Parris Lannister, whom is still staring at the map as though it has insulted his dead mother. “We have a few days before we need to decide who is going where,” he says eventually. “What I can promise, is that thirty thousand men will be accompanying the northerners on their sacking of Riverrun.” 

“Perfect,” Peter says with a pleased grin,” moving the Lannister and Stark markers to encircle Riverrun, “Just where I want them.”

### KING’S LANDING

When Danny arose this morning, there was no inkling in his mind that this would be the day he takes his last breath, and departs from this world. But now, as he kneels on the floor of the Great Hall, beside his father, and surrounded by white cloaks, there is only one thought racing through his mind: ‘This is how I die’. 

He had been lounging amongst his chambers alongside his father, when the white cloaks arrived with the summons. His father hadn’t seemed distressed at all, so naturally Danny had all but followed willingly. His father was smart; he was a good Hand, a capable Hand. Danny has been keeping an eye on his father’s work, and he knows that his position has been more or less a ceremonial title until the lord Lannister returns. 

His father has been advising on trivial matters, such as city defenses, supply trains; things the people of Dorne were renowned for. There is no reason for the two of them to be in this situation. Which is why of course, Danny’s mind can only wander to one possibility; ‘What the fuck had Stiles gotten him into now.’ 

“Doran Martell,” the King’s voice booms across the Keep, “Did you commit treason by falsifying orders under my name and seal,” he questions in a growling voice. 

“No, your Grace,” Doran replies immediately. “I would never act beyond your expressed wishes and orders.” 

Danny knows this is a terrible situation, but that does little to quell his wandering mind. Obviously that stupid Prince has gotten his family implicated in something, but what he doesn’t know. There have been no seeds of gossip, or interesting tales floating through the halls. There have been no panicked guards racing through the city streets. There have been no signs of the war effort failing and disillusionment among the people. Danny is utterly perplexed. 

“You did not forge my name, and send implicit instructions upon my behalf,” the King inquires in a stilted voice. 

“No, of course not, your Grace,” Doran answers quickly. 

“You did not send orders to my brother, Commander of the Baratheon Army,” the King presses. 

“No, Your Grace.”

Danny can feel that self-preservation slowly slipping away, as his mind begins to wander further away from his current situation, and closer to the one the King is referring to. He would really to know what malformed part of the Prince’s head deemed it acceptable to forge his father’s orders, and send them to his uncle; let alone the seriousness of whatever they contained. 

He knows that Stiles had sent Scott to Stannis’ encampment in Duskendale, but he had never presumed there was more to the matter then removing him from the Capital. Now Danny feels like an idiot, frankly he should have seen there was far more going on. But then again he was woken in the middle of the night, not exactly when he is at his peak performance. 

He knows the Prince wanted Scott sent back to the Eyrie, after all he was there for the interrogation. Obviously the conversation with his father proved uneventful or, at least produced an undesirable result; otherwise there would have been no reason for the Prince and the Master of Whisperers to leave in secret. Danny wishes he could say he was surprised, but in actuality this seems exactly like something the Prince would do; act carelessly, and then run away leaving everyone else for dead. 

He chances a quick look up at the King and sees a harsh glower set upon his face; he wishes he hadn’t looked, as death seems like a more likely outcome. Time seems to be of the essence, and if Danny has any hope of formulating an argument for his innocence, he needs to figure out just what it is that Stiles was trying to keep from him. 

Everything comes back to Scott; why would lord Arryn be of any use to Stannis Baratheon. Scott ran away from responsibility the time it reared its head at the Green Fork; he was adamant of his innocence during the interrogation; House Arryn in general has been supportive of the Crown since the Rebellion broke out, so of what use could this boy be to Stannis Baratheon. 

He has never participated in tournaments, despite travelling across the realms to them. He has never taken an interest in politics, nor would he ever present himself an effectual leader at the age or maturity. All he has attributed to his name is the title of betrothed, to one Lady Allison Targaryen. 

“Oh fuck,” Danny mutters, eyes fluttering shut when the reality hits him. Stiles sent Scott to his uncle for an invasion. Stiles sent forged orders to his uncle for an invasion. The Baratheon forces invaded Dragonstone; Danny is almost certain that at any moment, his morning meal is about to make reappearance. 

Apparently his exclamation had been louder than he thought, as all eyes in the Great Keep fly towards him. 

“Stop talking,” his father orders in a hushed voice. “I don’t care what you know, stop talking.” 

His father’s orders walls upon deaf ears when the King rises from his seat upon the Iron Throne, and descends from the twisted hulking monster. 

“What do you know,” he questions, his blue eyes boring a hole through the Martell heir. 

“I don’t know anything…” Danny says with a quivering voice, “I have a guess—just a guess.” 

“Answer me boy, and be quick about it,” orders the King, the famous Baratheon temper beginning to flare. 

“You mentioned Lord Stannis Baratheon,” Danny says immediately, “When the Prince returned from Duskendale, he mentioned that the commander was meant to secure the costal wall and defend it… orders he was not pleased with,” he finishes lamely. 

“Go on,” the King barks impatiently. 

“I am assuming that the orders you are questioning, are in contradiction to the orders of which your son spoke,” Danny speaks quickly, “Beyond that I know nothing, your Grace. It is just a guess.” 

The King gives a silent order, and within the blink of an eye a white cloak draws his sword and positions it upon Danny’s neck. 

“Does it not strike you as odd that your son is privy to such information, Doran,” the King asks evenly. “Frankly, I find it quite odd that he seems to know more than you about such delicate matters. Perhaps you know more than him, but possess a quieter tongue.” 

“As acting Hand of the King, it is my duty to advise you, your Grace,” Doran states through clenched teeth, “And if that man does not remove his sword from my son’s throat, the last piece of advice you shall be receiving, is to prepare for Dorne’s independence from your kingdom.” 

“Are you threatening me,” the King questions. 

“I am advising you,” Doran reiterates. “I am advising you, to have that man stand down, before I force him to, and then walk out of those doors with my son.” 

“I have you telling me one thing, my advisors telling me another. What am I supposed to do about this mess? Seven bloody hells, Doran,” the King exclaims in an exasperated tone. “I have nine realms at war, my son is missing, and now Alexander Targaryen is dead. All I want to do right now is HIT something!” he shouts in anger. 

The King pinches the bridge of nose and exhales a deep breath, before absently waving a hand in the direction of the offending white cloak. Once the sword has been sheathed, Doran turns his son to face him, examining his throat for any marks. Once he is satisfied, he turns his attention back to the King. 

“Your anger is understandable, even if it is misplaced, your Grace,” he replies in a soothing tone. “I take it your brother Stannis is responsible for Lord Alexander’s death,” Doran prompts. 

“He isn’t a lord anymore… none of them are,” the King replies with a snort. “Under my supposed orders, all Targaryens have been stripped of their ranks and titles. Any who do not willingly bend the end, face the penalty of death,” he finishes with a grimace. 

Doran sighs, but struggles to hide his supportiveness for the order. “It is a brash course of action, however it is not without merit,” he says with a shrug. “The Targaryens have been overstepping bounds for centuries, now just may be the time to remove their power once and for all.” 

A conflicted expression flickers across the King’s stony visage. “I am meant to uphold the peace, not murder everyone who disagrees with me. There should be a trial, so that they can be properly judged before men and gods.” 

“A wise decision, your Grace,” Doran replies, “Any whom manage to survive this war, and still retain their heads, shall stand trial at its close. However, there is still much to do before that time will come.” 

The King hums in agreement, “I hate war. Every drop of blood spilled is a terrible waste.” 

“Perhaps you should send out new orders… your own orders,” Doran suggests. “There are still four Targaryens intent on ripping apart the Kingdom, let alone the other Great Houses who have pledged their support.” 

“And where is the support of my Great Houses,” the King spits back, “I have the Starks chasing the Taragreyns into every corner of the Riverlands, the Lannisters who are preparing to take up arms against eighty thousand Tyrell bannermen, and my own army trying to minimize insurgents within the Crownlands.” 

“Perhaps we should try approaching Lord Rafael Arryn again, your Grace,” Doran remarks in a cautious tone. “Though his support seems to be contingent upon the return of his missing son.” 

“The gods be damned I am a King. I don’t need to ask Lord Arryn for his support, I am ordering it from him. You can tell Lord Arryn, that his forces better be where I want them, when I need them. The whole reason my son is missing, is because of his son’s own actions. I refuse to cower in the face of his demands, for the sole reason he values his son’s life over mine,” the King roars. 

The King removes a partially torn letter from his coat, before tossing it at Doran’s feet. “Summer is almost at an end, and I am not fighting this war when the winds of winter come howling. If Lord Arryn thinks I am going to allow him and his kin to crawl their way to refuge in the Gates of the Moon, he is sorely mistaken. Lord Arryn and his family will be barricaded within their impenetrable stronghold, and they will turn to frozen corpses within their impenetrable stronghold. Do I make myself clear,” he grits out through clenched teeth. 

“Yes, your Grace,” Doran replies evenly. 

“Good. Now fix this,” the King orders, before angrily striding towards the large oak doors. 

Danny slowly bends down and picks up the letter at his father’s feet, examining the broken Baratheon seal. “That could have gone better, mind you it could have also gone quite worse,” Danny remarks with a grin. 

“I told you to be quiet,” Doran chastises, before shoving him grabbing his shoulders and shoving him towards the oak doors. “And give me that,” he hisses, effectively ripping the letter out of Danny’s hands. “There is sensitive information within this letter, information you need not be privy to.” 

Danny frowns at his fathers words, “I already know what it says, or were you not paying attention to why there was a sword pressed against my throat,” he mocks. “Everyone’s favourite idiot Prince, sent Scott Arryn to Duskendale, where Stannis then used his knowledge of Dragonstone to sack it and kill Alexander Targayen—all supposedly under the orders of the King.” 

His father seems resigned to Danny’s attitude, until a look of worry flickers across his face. “How do you know Stannis Baratheon has the Arryn boy,” he questions slowly. “The King made no mention of his whereabouts.” 

“I already knew,” Danny states with a casual shrug. 

His father grabs his arm and yanks him to a halt. “If you get caught in a lie, you could very well end up chains, or worse without a head,” he hisses in warning. 

“Relax,” Danny says slowly, “It’s not lying; it is withholding information. Everyone runs around practically shouting out their secrets, and then seem absurdly surprised when they realize someone knows what is going on.” 

Doran releases an exasperated sigh before shoving Danny forward and forcing him to continue back to their chambers. “Just promise me you aren’t going to get dragged into this mess,” he pleads. 

“No one will be any the wiser,” Danny promises with a grin. 

“Good,” his father answers in a curt tone, “Because if you get caught meddling with affairs of state—let alone interfering with recovery of missing persons—I won’t be able to help you.”

###  HARROWAY

Boyd is a realist; he understands that war is not all glory and honour. However, he was not aware of the complete scope its destruction. At this point in the war, almost all skirmishes and battles have taken place within the Riverlands; a fact that becomes quite apparent the further one rides inland. 

While large armies have done most of the fighting, a number of insurgent groups and rebel factions have also arisen. Because of this, forests have been decimated, in order to construct makeshift vantage points, bunkers, and trenches. The once beautiful landscape of rolling hills, thick forests, and enchanting waterways, is now no more than a barren void. 

This void is a muddy wasteland, filled with half-dug mass graves, and bloated corpses. Every so often a living soul would appear, desperately scavenging the corpses and destroyed wagons for any sign of clothing, food, or valuables. The sight brings a grim look to Boyd’s face, and the realization that neither living nor dead would find peace. Nor would they until this war comes to an end. 

In all honesty, Boyd would have preferred the option of returning to the capital; unfortunately for him, he owes the Starks quite a bit, and that is not something to be taken lightly. When he was only a boy, his father had been caught selling men into slavery. Naturally the Starks had banished his father to The Wall, and left House Mormont fracture and weak. 

His mother had already been in ailing health, and many suspected their House would fall all together; at least until Peter Stark stepped in. The man had recently lost his own son—and for some reason Boyd had never grasped—saw some value within him. He was taken in as a ward by The Starks, and raised alongside their son Derek, raised to be a proper Lord and leader. The Starks had given him a second chance for his family, and that was not something to be squandered. 

Under recommendation of the Starks, the King had appointed him Master of Whisperers, at the young age one and nine. It was a grand title, something Boyd would have never imagine himself to carry. It was because of their generosity, and openness in accepting him, and raising him up, that he swore to uphold their will. If that will happens to mean running stupid errands for Derek, then so be it. 

Thankfully the sights and stench of war soon begin to dissipate, as he comes upon the town of Harroway. The majority of the town had been burned centuries ago by dragons, but through the years, numerous homes and inns had arisen, allowing men to profit from the increased travel along the rivers. Next to the wooden town marker, is a hunched over a figure, and a familiar black destrier grazing on the overgrown grass. 

Boyd knows he has an important task to complete—a time sensitive one nonetheless—but his curiosity wins out. He reins his horse to a halt and looks down at the gangly boy. “Are you alright,” he asks slowly. 

The rag-clothed figure raises his head, and gives Boyd a sneering once over. “I’m wonderful, can’t you tell,” he asks in a mocking tone, moving his hands about absently. 

It takes almost all of Boyd’s will to not roll his eyes at the boy’s misplaced bravado. “Who did you steal the horse from,” he asks evenly. 

The boy gives an affronted scoff in response, “And what exactly makes you think I stole it?”

“Well…” Boyd begins, “I have a hard time believing a low born such as you happened to come upon a destrier by legal means,” he drawls out with a raise of his brows. 

“Low born,” the boy mimics, “You must be joking. I am a lord,” he argues back. 

“Lord of what, that ant hill by your feet,” Boyd asks with a smirk. 

The boy releases an amused huff, and tips his head in agreement. “I am having a rough go of it at the moment. This whole war business hasn’t been working in my favour,” he says with an absent wave of his hand. 

“Nor mine,” Boyd agrees, “Perhaps we can help one another, with our current plights,” he suggests. 

“What is it that you need,” the boy asks with a wary look. 

“The highest form of currency,” Boyd remarks with a grin, “Information.” 

“I’m a bit skint at the moment,” the boy admits with a frown, “Buy me something to eat, and I’ll tell you anything I know.” 

Boyd mulls over his words for a moment, before nodding his head and leaning over in the saddle, extending a hand outwards to the boy. “What is your name,” he asks. 

The boy takes the extended hand and rises to his full height, though his face continues to carry a concerned expression. “What's yours,” he asks, his tone laced with suspicion. 

“Ser Boyd Mormont,” he replies plainly. 

The boy seems to still for a moment, before jerking the horse’s head from the grass and swinging up onto its back in one swift motion. He reins his horse in beside Boyd’s and gives him an appraising look. “Isaac Greyjoy,” he says quietly, “Lord Isaac Greyjoy I suppose… for what it’s worth.” 

Boyd fails at keeping the surprise from his face, “No shit,” he says with a short laugh, cueing his horse forward into a walk, and towards the inn. 

A smile breaks out upon Isaac’s face, and he gives a dry laugh in response. “Go ahead,” he prompts, “Ask away.”

“What are you doing so far east,” Boyd asks in a confused tone. 

“That’s an easy one,” Isaac replies with a forced smile. “My bastard brother sold us out to the Targaryens and killed my elder brother Camden. Some of our forces fled home, some were slaughtered, and others are still loyal to the rebellion. And to top it all off, I am apparently the bloody lord of the Iron Islands.” 

“That’s shit luck,” Boyd says with a shake of his head. “I honestly expected some resistance, but nothing of that nature.” 

Isaac shrugs, “Some Stark forces showed up and broke up the mess. That is all I saw before I fled.” 

“What Stark,” Boyd asks immediately. 

“Peter, I think,” Isaac supplies, vaguely motioning to the right side of his face. “He may have rolled around in some wild fire, but it has done little to tarnish his looks,” Isaac says casually. 

Boyd raises a sceptical brow, but says nothing. Peter is in some ways a surrogate parent, ergo someone whose attractiveness he has no interest in discussing. “I’ll take your word for,” he replies with a shake of his head. 

Desperate to change the topic of conversation, Boyd presses on. “Have you seen any Targaryen men in these parts?”

“Plenty,” Isaac grumbles. “There seems to be a large number of them garrisoned at Harrenhal. From there they send out raiding parties. I’ve been avoiding them by climbing the trees. The horse keeps surprisingly quiet, and they pass by without a second though.” 

“He’s Derek Stark’s horse,” Boyd remarks cheekily. “He has been specifically trained for sport and war.” 

Isaac’s eye widen in surprise, “Lucky horse it seems. He has managed to outrun the Freys, and the Targaryens.” 

“Hopefully he will live to outrun a few more,” Boyd warns, reining his horse to abrupt halt, and extending an arm out in front of Isaac. 

Before them is the Harroway Inn. Unfortunately there are also 8 armoured mounts tethered in front of it, and a Targaryen standard pitched into the ground alongside them. However, what truly caught Boyd’s interest, was the man pissing alongside the building, or more so the sword attached to his hip—Derek’s sword. 

“Well time to go,” Isaac said quickly, only to have Boyd grab hold of his arm.

“We aren’t going anywhere. You wanted food, and we are going to get you some,” he hisses out through clenched teeth. “Don’t stare at them, and don’t panic. We are supposed to be here.” 

“No we're not,” Isaac singsongs in a worried voice. 

“Yes we are,” Boyd emphasizes, once again cueing his horse forward. “We are Targaryen spies. Now sit up straight, put that cocky smirk back on your face, and don’t be afraid to remind them of just how little their presence matters to us.” 

“Anything else, I need to acquire in the next thirty seconds,” Isaac mutters petulantly. 

“Balls of valyrian steel,” Boyd states matter-of-factly. 

The two of them rein to a halt in silence, dismounting and tying their horses without a second glance at the Targaryen soldier standing awkwardly by the inn door. The two of them stride their way towards the door, bypassing the soldier entirely. “No matter what you see inside, do not give away your surprise or anger,” Boyd whispers in a hushed tone, before abruptly shoving open the door. 

Inside are seven very drunk Targaryen men, one bloodied and half dressed tavern girl, an unconscious innkeeper, and a bound and gaged blonde on the floor. It is days like these where Boyd wishes he never got out of bed in morning. 

With a sigh, he grabs Isaac by the back of his neck and shoves him towards an open table at the other end of the inn. Boyd fakes a loud laugh, as he grabs a casket of ale from a nearby table, and sits down next to Isaac, pulling him close to whisper in his ear. “Yes that is your sister, and no we are not going to do anything rash. Follow my lead, and we will do this properly,” he orders. 

Isaac clenches his jaw but remains seated all the same. His eyes are fixed upon his sister, some unheard conversation being had between the two of them. There is blood matted in her hair at her temple, and the bindings are her wrists had rubbed the skin raw. Boyd does not blame Isaac for barely containing his anger; he would do far worse if that were his own sister. 

Boyd pours out a horn of ale for both himself and Isaac, before slowly turning his attention to proceedings across the room. The men would be easily to dispose of, far too drunk to pose much of a challenge. He does not know how much training Isaac has with a sword, but if he could get one into his hand, it would make the whole ordeal progress much quicker. 

Boyd shifts his gaze slightly and focuses on the blonde—Erica Greyjoy. If he didn’t know any better, he would suspect Derek wanted her returned for less than honourable reasons. She may have betrayed his trust and run like a coward, but even now, bound and gaged, she looks like a dangerous individual. Perhaps she is only a fighter when backed into a corner; after all she is just a girl. 

They have nearly drained half their horns by the time they attracted the interest of the drunken soldiers. One finally manages to pull away from the crying girl, and tuck himself back into his breeches, before grabbing a horn of ale and striding over towards their table. 

“Oi, who da 'ell are yew two,” the drunken soldier questions, as he stumbles his way towards the table, spilling ale over himself and the floor as he goes. 

“Commanders,” Boyd replies without hesitation, a bored expression set upon his face. 

“Oh yeah? Why 'aven't I ever seen yew two around 'ere befawer,” he shoots back, collapsing onto the opposing bench at their table. 

Isaac sneers, “And why would two commanders have anything to do with the likes of you,” he asks in a disgusted tone. 

Boyd has to give the boy credit, he may not be the most imposing sight, but he certainly knows how to work with what he has. 

The doors the inn swings open, and in walks the soldier from outside. He levels Boyd and Isaac with another sceptical look and stalks over towards them. “And what exactly are da two ov yaaahr commanding,” he questions. 

“Special forces,” Boyd replies in a bored tone, “We’ve been recalled to help vanquish the Lannister threat in the West.” 

“Sounds awful. All da fun 'appens around 'ere, not over there,” mumbles the stumbling soldier with a wink, hiking his thumb over his shoulder towards Erica, and the crying girl. “Nuff said, yeah?”

“Da two ov yew don't look like Targaryen commanders,” states the soldier seated at their table, suspicion clear in his voice. 

“What fucking part of Special Forces are you having trouble with,” Isaac asks with a flash of teeth. “No wonder you fucking idiots are out here robbing peasants, you can’t be trusted to actually contribute anything of value.” 

Boyd sighs and let’s his eyes fall shut for a moment. He takes back everything he thought earlier of Isaac being a natural. The boy is far too driven by anger, to do anything remotely discreet. 

“Who are yew callin' a fuckin' idiot,” asks the stumbling soldier, coming to stand at his comrades shoulder. 

“He simply means that being discreet in our movement is imperative to our success,” Boyd replies in a complacent tone. “If we marched around waving a Targaryen standard, we wouldn’t be very successful in getting somewhere undetected.” 

“Undetected? Well if its undetected yew need, then we promise ter not tell anyone we saw you. Ok,” the standing man supplies, sloshing ale onto his seated friend. 

“Thank you, your cooperation is most appreciated,” Boyd replies with a tight lipped smile. 

“I'd offer yew somethin' ter eat, but aaahr innkeeper seems ter be under da wearfer,” the soldier replies with a grin. “There is plen'y ov ale 'owever, an' da girl ain't 'alf bad either,” he states, tilting his head in the direction of the tavern girl. 

“How about that one,” Boyd question, raising his horn towards Erica. “What will a taste of her cost me,” he asks casually. 

“A fine choice m’Lord! She is a bi' ov a 'andful, nearly an' allk me 'ead off wiv a sword when we captured 'er. She is a 'igh born though, so we are 'ryin' ter figure if we 'ave aaahr fun, befawer awer after, we ransom 'er off ter 'er wealthy farfer,” the man replies with a wicked laugh. 

Isaac curls his lip in disgust, and Boyd can faintly make out the sound of his knuckles cracking, despite the ruckus being made by the other soldiers. 

“I'll tell yew what. I'll take me turn first, bend da bitch over, an' then yew can fuck 'er as bloody as yew like,” the soldier jeers. 

From the corner of his eye, Boyd can see Isaac’s gaze set upon the man’s sword at his hip; the boy’s anger is clearly starting to get the better of him. There is a bad feeling growing in the pit of Boyd’s stomach, a feeling that no matter how he tries to end this with, as little dramatics are possible, Isaac is going to beat that man bloody. 

Boyd releases an annoyed sigh before rising from the table, and pull himself up to his full height. “I don’t share my toys,” Boyd states plainly. 

“Well she ain't yaaahr toy ter play wiv now is she? She belongs ter us, so yew can take what yew are given, awer yew can 'ave nothing,” The standing soldier spits out. 

Boyd narrows his eyes, and curls his lip in disgust. Reasoning with these idiots is like eating stew with a fork. Boyd tips his head and gives Isaac a quick glance, before striding around the table and coming to stand next to the soldiers, his height allowing him to tower over them. 

“You are in no position to be making rash decisions,” Boyd enunciates clearly, eyes flickering to Isaac’s confused face. 

Without a second thought, Boyd smoothly slips Derek’s sword from its place at the standing soldier’s hip, and slices it straight through the man’s abdomen, spilling his innards upon the floor in a bloody heap. The other soldier scrambles to stand, but before he can so much as scream, the sword is slit across his throat, leaving only the sound of gurgling blood to escape. 

“Seven blood hells,” Isaac croaks out, leaping up from his seat to avoid the blood running over the edge of the table. 

Boyd tosses Derek’s sword to Isaac, who despite his surprise catches it easily. Boyd then draws his own weapon, turning to face the remaining soldiers—who have now taken a keen interest in their guests. “I hope you know how to use that,” he says with a steely voice. 

“Stick them with the pointy end,” Isaac replies in tremulous voice. 

Boyd gives an amused shake of his head as he advances towards the other six men, “Cut your sister free,” he orders, “I’m sure that even with your limited training, you can manage that.” 

Within the blink of an eye, a bloody sword fight consumes the inn. Despite facing multiple opponents, Boyd parries, glissades, and disarms with perfect form—ever an example of his years studying under numerous swordsmen. Isaac in turn, is wildly swinging his blade, and fists at anything within in reach, desperate to reach his sister, and survive doing so. 

As he scrambles to his sister, he finds that the unconscious innkeeper is indeed dead, and watches as one men strikes down the tavern girl in her attempt to flee. 

When Isaac reaches his sister, he quickly slices through the bonds on her wrists, allowing her to remove her gag, whilst he cuts off the ones around her ankles. Once she is free, Isaac lays down the sword and takes his sister’s head in his hands, checking over the bleeding wounds. 

“Are you alright? Can you run,” Isaac asks hurriedly, panic ebbing its way into his voice, as he chances a look at the fight still raging on. 

Erica grabs Isaac’s wrists—painfully given the wince upon his face—as she yanks them down from her face. “Give me the sword,” she orders. 

“No,” Isaac exclaims, “We need to leave, right now,” he implores. 

Erica releases his hands and grabs the discarded, stumbling on weak legs as she rises from the ground. “I’m not going anywhere, until I dismember a few worthless cunts,” she growls. 

Isaac scrambles into an upright position, and grabs a hold of Erica’s arm holding her back. “I don’t know about you, but I think he is doing bloody fine on his own,” Isaac yells in ringing voice. The fact of the matter is, that he isn’t wrong. Of the six remaining men, three have already been disposed of, their bodies bleeding out upon the floor of the inn. 

Erica shrugs off her brother’s hand and eagerly throws herself into the fight, ever vengeful for retribution. 

Boyd throws a glance her direction, and finds that despite her abhorrent form, she is quite skilled with her parries. She may have not studied under Derek for long, but he recognizes Peter’s training methods anywhere. 

He focuses his attention back on his opponents, and delivering quick and precise strikes to their limbs. There is no need for theatrics, for pomp, when engaging in a fight. The task is to disarm the threat as quickly as possible, and that is precisely what Boyd does. 

One of his opponents breaks off from the group, heading over to engage Erica; Boyd doesn’t bat an eye. If she is willing to charge into the fray head first, it is her own fault if she gets hurt. 

Taking a chance, he delivers one swift blow to a man’s chest, hearing the crack of his ribs as the sword tears its way through. The man collapses immediately, once the weapon is withdrawn from his chest. With a quick rotation of his wrist and a spin of his heel, Boyd repositions himself, and gives his sword one last swing; splitting the final man’s head in two. 

With a sigh of relief, Boyd slowly turns around to check on his two Ironborn companions, only to find himself staring down the end of a bloody sword. 

Erica is levelling him with an appraising look. Her chest is heaving with exertion, and her clothes are covered in a spray of blood—it does little to diminish the appeal her sharp features. At her feet rests the body of her own opponent, his chest split open from naval to collarbone, leaving his organs on display to the world. 

“Who are you,” She asks in a hard voice, a slight tremor giving away her worry. 

“Ser Boyd Mormont,” he answers for the second time that day. “Derek Stark sent me to track down his wayward companion, and aid him in keeping his oath, to deliver her to King’s Landing.” 

“Is that true,” she asks, directing her inquiry over her shoulder to her brother. 

Isaac has little to no interest in their standoff, as he is busy picking through the remains of the now slaughtered soldiers’ meal. “Sure,” he supplies with a shrug, before tearing off a piece of chicken, and popping it into his mouth. 

Erica reluctantly lowers Derek’s sword and steps forward, her free hand extended in greeting. “Erica Greyjoy—but you already know that,” she supplies with a small smile. 

That smile, is something Boyd would like to see more of, preferably every morning for the rest of his life. Before he even realizes what he is doing, Boyd kneels like the proper knight he is, and takes Erica’s extended hand, placing a feather light kiss upon it. 

Erica’s face flushes in embarrassment, but the small smile turning into a blinding one, lighting up her features. 

“If you two are quite done,” Isaac mumbles out, through a mouth full of food. “We should probably get out of here before more soldiers show up, and get pissed about our redecorating of the place,” he says with an absent wave of his hands. 

Boyd rises in one swift motion, “He’s right,” he agrees reluctantly, “We need to get moving. Take anything of value we may need, but do it quickly. 

Erica hurries over to the man that once held Derek’s sword, and delivers a harsh kick to his head, “Not having much fun now, are you,” she taunts, before removing the scabbard from his waist, and fastening it around her own. She wipes the blood off of Derek’s sword and then sheaths it at her side. 

Isaac quickly tosses a large collection of food into a bag, obviously not willing to take a chance on when his next meal will be. Without a second glance the three of them make there way out of the inn and back towards the tethered horses. 

“I want that one,” Erica says quickly, pointing towards the black destrier. 

“Not a chance,” Isaac fires back petulantly, only to be shoved onto his ass unceremoniously by his sister, as she runs over to the horses cackling. 

Boyd rolls his eye at their antics, but expects nothing less from siblings, let alone Greyjoys. “We should untack and turn the rest loose. It is best they disappear, and not attract unwanted attention to our trail,” he reasons, as he seats himself upon his own horse. 

Isaac grumbles and dusts himself off as he stands, dragging his feet as he stalks over the horses. “Well, don’t everyone rush to help me at once,” he mumbles. He quickly—though reluctantly—untacks seven of them, and let’s them go, before reluctantly mounting into the saddle of the eighth. 

Once he is seated, he turns his horse to face his waiting companions, only to finding them exchanging hushed whispers. “You two are pathetic,” he scoffs, though the words carry little heat. 

Erica glares at her brother; Boyd simply gives him a wide dry smile before replying, “It is a few days ride to the capital, so I sincerely hope the two of you know how to ride.” 

“I’ll manage,” Erica says breathily, a wink thrown in for added effect, before cueing the destrier into a canter, and taking off down the road. 

It’s now Boyd’s turn to blush, colour filling his cheeks.

“You are in over your head,” Isaac warns. 

“Didn’t ask,” Boyd replies with a grin, before cueing his horse off after Erica’s, leaving Isaac to bring up the rear on his newly acquired rounsey.

### MAIDENPOOL

The ride from the Trident to Maidenpool had been an enlightening one for Derek. On the lighter side, he’d shared Erica’s tall tales, and return earned a handful of new bruises—of course all courtesy of an understandably offended prince. However, they quickly ran out of fond stories, and soon found themselves delving into the heavier topics of conversation. 

Derek had recounted to Stiles, the ambush at the Green Fork, his imprisonment at the hands of the Freys—minus the more delicate details, involving one Jennifer Frey—, and ultimately his journey across the eastern Riverlands with Erica. Much to Derek’s surprise, the Prince had remained silent throughout, only asking questions when a lull grew in the conversation. He couldn’t help but wonder where the once joyous Prince had gone, though he soon had his answer. 

Once Derek had finished recounting his own tales, Stiles shared his own. He spoke of riding to Duskendale, in order to aid his uncle in securing the strategic stronghold, and establishing a guard along the coast. He also, after a period of hesitation—and one thoroughly gnawed upon bottom lip—disclosed what he had done before leaving the capital. 

Apparently, the foolish Prince had seen it fit to deliver falsified orders to his uncle; orders which will have likely led to the death of at least one Taragryen family member. Falsified or not, Derek could simply not muster a single shit to give about their current situation. He also found out that Stiles has sent Scott into his uncle’s care, to be stripped of his knowledge and used to whatever means, until his usefulness was no more. Once again, Derek held some remorse for the boy, but if he was honest, it was a miniscule amount. 

Riding alongside Stiles was a welcomed break from the hell he had endured for the past months: nearly a year at war, a handful of months in imprisonment, and even more as a fugitive on the run. However, that could barely compare to the elation Derek felt, when he laid eyes upon the town of Maidenpool. 

It was traditionally a town occupied by travelling sailors, but in a time of war, it appeared to be one of the few towns occupies by loyalists within the Riverlands. Their party had come to halt outside of one of the inns, and all but him seemed to be completely unsurprised to find they were the only guests within its walls. 

Derek had suspected that this was because of some strong-arming at the hands of the Mormont bannermen, or perhaps the Prince himself; for whatever his threats were worth. Frankly, none of the technicalities mattered to him, the moment he was handed a key to his own room. The thought of a warm bath, a decent meal, and feather bed upon which he could sleep, was enough to banish any questions from his mind. 

He spent a good hour soaking in the warm waters of the bath: covering every square inch of his body in precious soap, and carefully trimming the overgrown beard upon his face, until it was a more satisfactory length. He had missed the amenities of his highborn life, and vowed to never take them for granted again. 

Eventually he extracted himself form the bath and returned to his room, where he eats his fill of the mouton stew that had been left within. Clean from his bath, and a stomach full of warm food, Derek discards his rags he calls clothes, and crawls into his bed; collapsing in a fit of exhaustion. 

Unfortunately for Derek, exhaustion apparently means too exhausted to sleep. Instead of slipping into a welcomed rest, he is laying on his bed, staring at the questionable cloudlike webs in roof. Because really, why would he want to sleep, when he can spend hours thinking of all the ways he can die, by the will of giant fist-sized arachnids. 

Based on the position of the moon in sky, when he glances outside of the window, it is sometime in the early morning when he hears a knock at his door. His tired mind suspects it is probably more spiders, but then again, why would they knock when they could just start gnawing on his face as they please. 

“Come in,” he reluctantly answers, sitting up to light a number of candles for his visitor. He hears the door shut, and light footsteps approaching his bed; however, he does not expect the face that the flames illuminate. 

Stiles is cautiously walking towards the bed, shirtless and clad only in loose trousers. “Is this alright,” he asks slowly. Derek can only nod his head in response. 

Stiles makes his way over to the bed, only to lower himself down upon and crawling up the bed, coming to rest in Derek’s lap. He opens his mouth to speak, but a confused expression falls upon his face, and he gives a quick roll of his hips. “Are you naked,” he asks with a grin. 

Derek levels him a flat look, “You’ve seen my clothes,” he states in a cool voice, “Would you want to sleep in those shit stained rags,” he asks with a cock of his brow. 

Stiles nods his head in agreement, and takes a moment to gather his bearings before continuing. “So I was thinking,” he begins in a shaky voice, “that death is a terribly final thing…” 

Derek releases an amused huff at the Prince’s words, earning him a backhand to the chest. “Shut up, I’m trying my best here,” Stiles says with annoyance. 

Derek raises his hands in a complacent gesture, and motions for him to continue. 

Stiles sucks in a deep breath before continuing, “Death is so terribly final, and for the past few months, I have been more or less operating off of the assumption that you were dead. So now that I know you are not dead, and I can actually talk to you, I was wondering if maybe you were worried about if I was dead or not,” he asks with a hopeful expression. 

Derek furrows his brow in concern, “Of course I was worried about you. From what I understand, you have a knack for getting into trouble.” 

“Fair,” Stiles says grimace, “But… I was more so wondering, if you were as worried about me, as I was about you,” he adds expectantly. 

Derek cocks a brow, and searches Stiles face for any hint of answer. He thought that his previous statement had covered everything quite well—apparently not. He obviously missed the boy, he had dreamt of him for whatever value that held. Stiles had been worried about him, because he was ambushed and captured; in contrast he had known Stiles was safe within the capital. 

“I was worried that I wouldn’t see you again,” Derek replies, watching Stiles’ eyes light up at his words. He makes a mental note to remember that one; apparently the Prince enjoys being told, that he is a captivating subject. “I did everything in my power to make it somewhere safe, so that one day I would be able to see my family again,” Derek adds quickly. It technically isn’t a lie, so there is no harm from those words. 

A bright smile covers Stiles’ face, and he leans forward, bracketing Derek’s sides with his arms. “I was thinking,” he adds, “That since, death is a such a final thing… we should make the most of the present,” he states slowly. 

“What did you have in mind,” Derek asks cautiously, his face impassive. 

“Well,” Stiles begins, closing the distance between their faces, “My father has agreed to honour the betrothal, and there are no guards outside of your door…” he states in a honeyed voice. 

Derek’s face remains impassive, “Are you trying to seduce me,” he asks plainly. 

“Is it working,” Stiles asks in a breathy voice, his lips mere inches from Derek’s own. 

Derek wrinkles his nose, “Aren’t you a little less than enthused by our surroundings,” he inquires. “I’m not exactly tripping over the romance, given the dusty old bed, cobwebbed ceilings, and general dishevelment around us,” he states in an offended tone. 

Stiles frowns and leans back, once again seating himself upon Derek’s lap. “Really? You are objecting to the surroundings? I had thought you might be less than interested given the fact we are technically in enemy territory... and there are people who want to kill us... all within miles of our location...” he tappers of lamely. 

Derek shrugs, “That part doesn’t really bother me. ” 

Stiles narrows his eyes in scepticism, “Really? It’s the dusty bed and crypt-like decor that does in your libido.” 

Derek can’t help but laugh at the Prince’s pouting face. “I never said there was anything wrong with my libido. I was asking if you were comfortable,” he states matter-of-factly. 

“Of course I’m comfortable,” Stiles answers quickly, “Nothing but comfortable,” he says with a cheeky roll of his hips. 

It appears that one can undergo some level of maturation, and still be a fucking prick when it suits them. It is now apparent to Derek that the Prince had not come to his room to talk; he had come for the purpose of finishing what they started back at King’s Landing. The worried face was a good move, playing the part of the concerned betrothed. Derek had to hand it to the Prince; he had played him quite easily. 

He now has two options: throw the Prince out of his room, and hope for the best; or indulge him and deal with the repercussions at another time. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to the boy, but that doesn’t mean he should take advantage of his poor judgement. But then again, he seems to know exactly what it is that he is asking for. Coming in here, under the cover of darkness, half-naked, talking of betrothals, and trying to play to his protective nature. The boy is smart; there was no doubt about that.

He takes a moment to study the boy's face, finding red lips, blown pupils, and tenting trousers. There was no doubt what the Prince wants from him, the question is if this infatuation will fade, once the Prince receives what he wants. Derek sees no reason why can’t give in, why he can’t enjoy the boy’s company this one time. He can give Stiles what he desires, and then graciously step aside when his gaze falls on someone new. He can return home to his family, and spend the remainder of his days in Winterfell. 

However, Derek can’t shake the feeling that maybe this something more; that maybe the Prince won’t toss him aside after a quick fuck in a dirty room. Stiles has shown that he is driven to possess once he sets his mind upon something. That being said, Derek is well aware that once he gives in and allows Stiles to take what he wants, there is no more reason for him to chase. 

Stiles hadn’t denied his previous infatuation with Lydia Tyrell, in actuality he had admitted to pinning after her for years. Yet, here he is with Derek, staring at him as if he holds the answer to some burning question. Derek doesn’t know what the moral answer is to this question, but he knows what he is going to choose; for better or for worse. 

Derek leans forward, bumping his nose against Stiles’ cheek, “Do you even know what it is that you are asking for,” he asks in a smug voice. “You seem awfully tense for someone so comfortable,” he says, dropping his face to mouth at the boy’s neck. 

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Stiles moans out, giving another experimental roll of his hips, grinding down upon Derek’s cock. “I’ve put much more thought into this, than you have,” he challenges, a smirk placed firmly upon his face. 

All Stiles receives for a warning, is a lift of Derek’s brow, before his world is turned upside down, and he is flipped onto his back, Derek’s smug face staring down at him. “Doubtful,” Derek states, before diving down to kiss him, teeth clacking as the meet too quickly. 

Derek goes to pull back, only to have Stiles firmly grab his face and deepen the kiss, continuing to roll his hips, and getting off on the delicious friction. Derek breaks the kiss and pants against the Prince’s mouth, pressing their sweaty foreheads together. “You are an insufferable little shit, you know that,” he rasps out. Stiles attempts to dive back up and resume the kiss, but Derek turns his face away, beginning to mouth along his jaw. “Completely infuriating,” he adds between bites and kisses. 

“You aren’t much better,” Stiles moans out, bringing his hands up to Derek’s sides, dragging his nails through the skin, and causing the northerner to hiss in pain. “I have spent months imagining getting my hands on you,” Stiles mumbles, arching his back, as Derek presses his own hips down, giving them a purposeful roll, in hopes of shutting up the snarky Prince. 

“You really should be nicer to me,” Derek says with a wicked grin, “I’m the only one who puts up with you,” he states with a laugh, moving his fingers to waist of Stiles’ trouser, and unlacing them with expert ease. 

“Says the bastard who tries to glare people into submission,” Stiles gasps as Derek dips his fingers beneath the fabric of his trousers, and takes his leaking cock in hand. Derek smirks into his neck, rubbing his thumb over the slit, and smearing the precome down the length of his cock, as he frees it from the confines of the Prince’s trousers. “Oh fuck,” Stiles moans, fucking up into Derek’s fist and biting down hard on his bottom lip. 

“I’m not glaring at you right now, yet here you are moaning and writhing on your back,” Derek says shamelessly, before returning to sucking a bruising mark into the boy’s neck. Derek slows his hand, lazily jacking the Prince, as he pulls back to watch the effect he had on the younger boy. Stiles had his head thrown back, and mouth open in pleasure; his eyes were screwed shut and back bowed tight as he arched up off of the bed. 

“Derek,” Stiles moans out unashamedly, the muscles in his abdomen flexing with each hiss that escapes from between his lips. 

“Tell me what you want, Stiles,” Derek whispers in his ear. His own cock is hard and aching, but he can wait. Right now all his attention is on the boy beneath him, and what he needs. “I can’t help you, if you don’t tell me what you want.” 

The only answer Derek receives is a broken whisper of “Please,” in his ear. Derek is not a cruel man, nor would he gain pleasure from ignoring Stiles’ pleas. Instead he complies by tightening his grip around the boy’s length, jacking him fast, curling his wrist and bringing him off. Stiles’ stomach tightens almost painfully as he tenses all the muscles in his body, digging his nail harshly into Derek’s back, drawing blood as he scraps them along. 

“Fuck,” he sighs, dropping his head back against the pillow, and throwing an arm over his face. 

Derek has a smug grin settled upon his face, pleased with the ease to which the boy came. He rises up onto his knees, and takes his own cock in hand, stroking it quickly to what he assumes will be an embarrassingly quick end. He comes with a sharp jerk, covering Stiles’ exposed stomach with another layer cum, before collapsing forward onto his forearms and burying his face in the boy’s neck. 

Derek allows his muscles to go lax, and pushes all doubts to far corners of his mind. He’ll revisit them another time, but for now he is content to go lax and relax against the pliant body beneath him. They lay there in silence until the Prince begins to squirm in discomfort. 

“Not to ruin the moment, but you weigh a tonne, and I’m disgusting,” Stiles groans, shoving Derek’s shoulder. 

Derek groans and rolls off of Stiles’ prone form, mumbling apologies. He grabs the boy’s discarded trousers and drags it through the mess staining his pale skin, cleaning up the reminder of his terrible life choices. 

Derek’s limbs feel heavy, and his mind is fuzzy at best, his orgasm having all but quelled his bout of insomnia. He collapses back down upon his bed, pulling back the throws and settling himself into a comfortable position, and closing his tired eyes. 

He is sharply reminded of the other figure in the room, when the prince releases a sound almost like a whine. “I’ll just…” Stiles says in a confused voice, raking his hands through his dishevelled hair, as he stands and starts walking towards the door. 

“C’mere,” Derek mumbles, opening the throws and patting the place next to him invitingly. 

“It’s alright...” Stiles says in a hurt voice, “I can go.” 

Derek releases an annoyed sigh, “Stiles, I’m fucking exhausted, so get in here and shut up,” he adds in a clipped tone. The boy got what he wanted, he has no reason to continue his act unless he is hoping for another round; and given Derek’s current state, he is going to be shit out of luck. 

There is a moment of hesitation before Derek feels the bed dip, and a warm body slip in next to him. Derek readjusts the throws, and wraps an arm tightly around the boy’s middle, pulling him close enough to press his face into his hair, and inhale the relaxing scent. 

Derek is close to sleep when Stiles begins to squirm, delivering a jarring heel to his shin. “Stop. Moving.” Derek orders through a clenched jaw. 

“Sorry,” Stiles says apologetically, “I just can’t sleep with the candlelight in my face,” he says with a grimace. 

“Then blow them out,” Derek states in steely tone. 

“I don’t want get up,” Stiles argues back, wiggling his ass deeper in the mattress to emphasize his point. 

“Then stare at the ceiling,” Derek mumbles in annoyance. 

He feels the boy turn over beside him, and is relieved to hear no more objections, and receive no more blows. It takes Derek another minute before his breathing evens out, signalling sleep is within his grasp. 

“Gross,” Stiles mutters, “Were you not joking about the spiders in the roof,” he questions slowly, pointing to the cloud-like webs strung up throughout the thatched roof. 

“Not remotely,” Derek replies in a lazy voice, annoyance bleeding into his words at being denied sleep yet again. “Peter once told me about a man he knew who was bitten. None of them could figure out what the bite was from, given its strange appearance. There was simply a circle of small red dots, though the center of it would refuse to heal over time. Eventually one day, the whole thing just collapsed into a hole in his thigh. He nearly lost the entire leg.” 

Stiles glances to his side, and levels Derek with a look of disgust, “You are a terrible conversationalist, and you should never talk,” he groans. 

Derek releases a warm huff of air, “Fine, get bit and die for all I care. It will be your fault if you go poking around where you have no business being,” he mumbles into Stiles’ shoulder. 

“If that is how it is going to be,” Stiles shoots back, “When they come crawling down the walls to consume us, I am going to run and leave you for dead.” 

Derek eyes may be closed, but he rolls them all the same—even if the action itself carries no true animosity. “Shut up, and go to sleep,” Derek mumbles almost inaudibly, exhaustion beginning to drag him under, Stiles and his incessant fidgeting be damned. 

He can feel Stiles shift restlessly next to him, before eventually settling still, a comfortable presence next to him. Derek tightens his arm around the boy’s waist, and pulls his flush against him, leaving no room between them. “Just be sure to check your boots in the morning, before you put them on,” he adds with a whisper. 

He hears Stiles give a grunt of acknowledgement, before he finally gives in, and allows sleep to take him.


End file.
